


Let There Be Fire

by Morphiina



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action, Adventure, Ergi, FrostIron - Freeform, Gore, Horror, Lokicentric, M/M, Mild Mentions of Rape, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nudity, Protective Thor, Ragnarok, Seiðr, Sex, Shamless excessive use of the word ‘naught’, Slavery, Slow Burn, Small Loki, Tony is and always will be a brat, Torture, Viking Culture, Vikings, stopping the apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morphiina/pseuds/Morphiina
Summary: It was Ragnarok for the tribal lands of Asgard. Enraged by a great atrocity committed by the father generation, the fire god of the mountain threatened to smother them all alive in ash and fire.But there was hope. Warrior sons from each of the rival tribes must go forth and journey at peril to Helheim, to bring back the only thing that could calm the fire god.Loki was no warrior. But he was determined to join this quest to Helheim; no matter what it cost him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fic themesong:  
> [Let There Be Fire (feat. Miracle of Sound)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sH0ewuSL4gs) \- Aviators  
> 

 

The lands of Asgard were once a lush, verdant place. Green, grassy planes as far as the eye could see. Impenetrable forests ripe with variety and life. Emerald waters teeming with fish so plump with roe that the bears left enough half-eaten for the river otters to keep three or four pups alive without hunting much.

It was hard to remember what that was like, for many. The ash-born children had never even known it. Their world was dark and dim and gray and it was all they had ever known. When they listened to their elders describe Asgard as it had been, their eyes swam with the same look as they did when hearing ghost stories. It was just a fairytale to them.

It had been a decade since the mountain began spewing its toxins across the lands in all directions. The sun so often blotted out by the ash in the sky that anything but the most hardy of crops struggled to survive. The once-green grasslands had yellowed and struggled to recover from grazers, and all the trees except the evergreens had dropped their leaves.

The waters were toxic with sulfur and other volcanic gases as they bubbled up from the depths, from volcanic fissures, choking out the waterlife. The animals that once ate the fish were dwindling. The deer who ate the grasses now laced with chemicals that disintegrated the teeth were emaciated and struggling to bring pregnancies to term. With the deer population crashing, the wolves struggled to feed their pups from the lack of fawns to feed on.

Lava flowed in an ever-widening river. Once-green lands were black and smoldering. The heat set the dry forests alight, sometimes raging on until hundreds of acres were decimated. Inhabitants dead or become homeless wanderers.

Tribesmen, raiders, hermits and waywards alike suffered both from the increasingly-scarce resources and the choking air. The ash blanketed everything. Although the wind sometimes kept it at bay, sweeping it out to sea, it fell straight down every night, keeping all in their tents and cottages lest they wander outside and choke.

The mountain had ravaged the land for the last ten years; and it would continue to do so until all of Asgard was scoured from the world, no trace left. Because Surtr, the fire god, was angry, and his rage held no bounds.

This was no petty anger, either. He had good reason to desire Asgard’s destruction. A great atrocity had been committed against him by the tribesmen of the lands.

 

Since the beginning times of the gods’ creation of men, Surtr had gifted his worshippers with great power. The Fireborn, they were called. Not all of them had the ability to use it; those who did were called flameaters; but all carried the mark in their bones and passed it down to their children.

The Fireborn ocassionally warred with the other men in the past, but it had been centuries since they had used their powers for anything but good; keeping the forests in check with controlled wildfires. They had their own lands, but the Fireborn flameaters were ocassionally allowed to enter the territories of other tribes to do their work on the forests and grasslands. Most saw the benefit.

Others, however, saw a threat. A danger that threatened their own existence. The flameaters were powerful, and times past proved they could easily dominate the tribespeople if they set their minds to it. Red witches, they called them.

Decades ago; it was one of very few times in history that the tribespeople of Asgard banded together for something. Spurred on by the great elder Thanos and his persuasive speeches, the men of the generation rounded all of their warriors together, armed them with metal spears and swords and arrows, cured their leathers in flame-resistant plant oils, and marched northward to the lands of the Fireborn.

The battle was horrific and devastating on both sides. The vastly outnumbered Fireborn slaughtered in droves, the Asgardian tribesmen burnt to ashes where they stood.

But the tribesmen won, in the end. They suffered losses like never before since the great tribe wars; even the great Thanos was lost to them, burnt to ash where he stood; but they slaughtered every last Fireborn. Even the women and children; any who could carry on the mark of Surtr.

Or, so they thought. Over the following decades, refugee Fireborn were found across the lands, scattered and in hiding. One by one they were captured, and put to the knife. Until finally, ten years ago, the very last was discovered hiding in a cave.

She was a girl of her early twenties. Born in that cave, raised wild. Never knew the world before the decimation of her people. Her parents had died long ago, leaving her to fend for herself. She barely spoke the common tongue, and was naught much more than animal.

Yet not only was she Fireborn, she was a flameater. She did not know how to use her power, managed only to leave a few men with burns as they tried to take her; but she was the last of her kind. The last flameater.

They brought her back in chains decorated with spellwork that bound what little power she had. They brought her back to the encampment of hunters, where they had captured and slaughtered wild boar and goats to feast to their victory. The air stank of acrid smoke and foraged herbs, blood and pig flesh.

One drunken warrior had suggested they sacrifice the girl to the gods for blessing their efforts with fruit. Another argued that they could not actually burn her on a pyre; Fireborn were immune to the flames.

Yet one knew of an ancient sacrificial rite of darker times. One of stone, of runes, of blood.

The girl snarled when they dragged her over to the stone that had been freshly carved with crude runes and swirls and tracks. The bare skin of her back tore on the harsh rock as she was chained to it. Her rail-thin, naked body had been painted with the symbols of sacrifice, each part to a different god.

She thrashed viciously as the warrior Howard of the Starks came forth with the sacrificial blade, adorned with gold and symbolic crystals.

“I banish you and your kind from this world, red witch.” His voice was venomous and laced with alcohol. “May you never burn our lands or our people again.”

As he drew the knife to her throat, the Fireborn girl spat out her final words;

“Min far, Surtr, vil hevne meg.”

With that, her throat was cut so deep that the bone split, blood redder and deeper than the reddest wine gushing out from her severed jugular and spilled over her chest and neck. The thick, foaming life liquid flowed into the symbols and crevices until the sacrificial stone bled.

 

The moment her life left her body, a massive explosion was heard far in the distance, so loud it shook the foundations of homes across all of Asgard. It was on this day that the smoke began billowing out of Mount Brenne; the tallest mountain that towered above the lands. Some said that a voice could be heard in the explosive rumblings; of an anger and grief so great it cut to the bone and made all the animals freeze in horror.

It was on that day that the tribespeople of Asgard knew they had made the gravest mistake of all time.

They had angered the great fire god Surtr so wholly that he could never be appeased again. They had brought forth the coming of the ancient, long-dead prophecy that spoke of the end of Asgard.

The story of Ragnarok.

 

Yet, ten years later, there was hope once again. After all the years of praying and beseaching the gods, of sacrifice and research, the shamans discovered a way that they might quiet the fire god and put the mountain to sleep once again.

 

 

 

 

Loki looked out the window and grimaced. It was a rare, sunny early morning; a break in the ash cloud; but he would not have a chance to enjoy it while it lasted. Well, technically he could. But he would not find privacy to his reading this day.

Tents and campfires went on as far as the eye could see, in all directions. People milling about; talking, eating, sharpening weapons. Women cooking and sewing and children running about, making ash mud castles. They should have care not to keep their little hands in that puddle water for long, he thought. Unfiltered, the volcanic chemicles could begin to affect the outer layer of the flesh, leaving discoloration and, if exposed long enough, burns and lesions.

Yet, the ash-born children never seemed to have the same fear of the affects of Surtr’s rage as those who were born in the time before. Perhaps it was because it was all they knew. Sometimes Loki thought that when Asgard was covered over one day, these children would find a way to survive among the ash in that post-Ragnarok world.

But that may not be the future they had to look forward to, Loki thought with a jolt of excitement. There was a reason all of these men from rival tribes were here this day. Today was the day of the great contest; when ten warriors were to be chosen by rite of combat for the journey to save all of Asgard from the wrath of Surtr.

And that thought brought another pang to Loki’s chest; this one of fear. Fear of what he planned to do this day. He almost wanted the morning to go on forever, the sun to stop in the sky. But he knew if that happened, the great sky wolf would catch up and devour it. He wanted that less than what he had to face today.

Still, he had to get to that part first. He supposed now was as good a time as any to begin making his final preparations, and he closed his book. The parchment snapping shut with a crinkling thump.

He stood and stretched his sore spine. He had been sitting there since the morning was early and dark. He had tried to get as much needed sleep as he could, but it had been restless and he eventually gave up on the idea. He filled his mind with words until the sun rose over the horizon like the living fire of the mountain and the crows started their morning cawing.

Standing straight now, Loki looked down at himself and sighed. He stood in his sleeping trousers, chest bare. Pale as goat’s milk and thinner than some boys five years his younger. It wasn't his fault; it wasn't as though he hadn't tried. No matter what, he could not seem to be able to put on the necessary weight for building muscle.

There was a time when he thought it was the only way he could amount to anything, long before he had accepted his situation. Things were different now.

 

Now fully clothed in his fur-lined leathers and hides, thick to keep the chill of the ash-shaded lands from his bones, Loki strolled through the campgrounds.

The air smelled fragrant of meat and herbs and wine. The preparations for the great victory feast that night. Loki looked forward to the food, if nothing else. He knew many of the rival tribesmen had brought exotic meats and spices, treats and recipes from their own areas of Asgard. Things he’d never tried before.

Many of his tribemates were mingling with the visitors; ones that would recognize him. Any of them would. But Loki long ago learned the art of remaining invisible in plain sight. Weaving between bodies and stalls and tents he went along, searching for that particular plume of smoke he had spotted from his window.

“Loki! What are you doing out here?”

Loki cringed, stopping in his tracks. Of course, the one person who could see him no matter how inconspicuous he was trying to be.

His brother, elder of three years, jogged up to him. Hair long and golden as the rare rays of sun, skin tanner than seemed possible in the ever gloom. Tall, hugely muscled, sporting a short beard of golden thread, and blue eyes sharper than ice. Oh how Loki hated Thor sometimes. He was everything he could never be.

“Father will not be pleased if he finds you meddling.” Thor warned. “In fact, he may not be pleased to find you out here at all.”

Loki sighed. Always the good son. “I am not pulling anything, brother. I only wished to look around.”

Thor pulled a face. “Why do I not believe you?”

“Because you have more brains than you are given credit for.” Loki patted his brother’s well-muscled arm. “Fear not, brother. I have no intention of ruining your big day, this time.” He had a mischievous grin that Thor did not trust one bit.

Voices called Thor’s name from down farther afield, and the elder brother groaned and shook his head. “I must return to training, but I swear to you; if I find you have pulled any mischief; I will lock you in with the horses for the next three days.”

“Good thing I like oats.” Loki smirked, and stalked away. Thor watched him go with a dreading expression.

Thor was right to distrust him, but Loki did not have his usual mischief in mind. No, he had nefarious schemes for the day, but they were naught of the petty sort. This was far more important than scorpions in the spear holder.

 

As the tents twined on, the people between them became scarce and the space became smaller. Part of why he chose this particular one of its brand to raid. No one to catch him in the act.

Casually looking around, and confirming that no one was looking, Loki quickly knelt down and began working the edge of the tent up from where it was embedded in the ground.

It was dark inside, when he finally slid his small, flexible body through with the ease of a cat, pulling a little trail of the ashy dirt inside. He was silent in his endeavor, but knew no one was within. He had his run of the place.

His eyes adjusted to the dim that was lit only by the burning furnace, smoldering coals within, and the temporary metal chimney. A pair of tongs lay haphazardly on the edge, and the bellows looked dangerously close to the coals. He sighed and pushed them further away. Whoever the blacksmith was, he was quite careless. He wondered how many tents had burned down on the man’s watch.

He began his search quickly. It would not do him well to linger. He did not know when the tent’s owner would return. He found himself constantly looking at the entrance, listening for footsteps. Whenever he heard voices outside, no matter how far they were, he froze and felt a cold chill run up his middle. He was used to sneaking around, but in familiar territory. This place was far from familiar, and he was on edge.

But he had to come here. His tribe had no blacksmiths, instead trading for ready-made weapons with their livestock, meat, dairy products and mead; the primary exports of Eldreheim’s grassy plains. The sigil on the flag of this tent he had spotted from the window, he knew to be a carrier of metals. They were the lords of metalworkers, this tribe.

Thankfully, he spotted the item he was looking for in moments. The dying light glinted dully off the smoke-choked plate of metal, but with cleaning it would do. Loki grinned and stepped over to the pile of them.

He shuffled through them, taking care not to make much noise, and pulled up an undented metal plate in the size he required. The size of a shield. Perfect. He wished he could cheer at this success. Though it was far from the most difficult part, his plan was running smoothly thus far.

That was, until someone cleared their throat.

Startled, heart jumping out of his chest, Loki looked up with wide eyes. He somehow hadn't heard the tent flap open, or notice the light bleeding in, or the shadow that stood above him now. How had he missed all that? His senses had been on such high alert, was the person a ghost? Had he become so transfixed in his task that the world melted away as it did when he read? His eyes slowly traveled up until they reached the figure’s face.

It was a face of puzzlement, one thick, pointed eyebrow raised. The young man was tanned, had the muscular, stocky build of a blacksmith. His hair was brown and chopped short, shaved shorter at the sides, as all of his trade wore it. He had a bit of a beard; trimmed in odd, sharp angles around his chin. His eyes weren't hostile, however his folded-arm pose may like to fool. They were warm and brown and comfortable, through the stern expression.

He wore dyed leathers and furs, a sword strapped to his back, his belt buckle of gold. His chest was nearly bare, save a dense fur at his shoulder. Oddly fancy clothing, for a blacksmith.

“Of all the things I've had stolen from me, I can't say I've ever seen someone go for a seemingly worthless metal plate.” The man’s rough but clear voice almost sounded amused.

Loki blinked, and slowly stood up, straightening his spine gracefully, still holding the metal plate tightly in his pale, thin fingers like it was life itself he was holding onto. “I am only borrowing it.” He retorted, trying to sound casual.

The man was looking him up and down, an odd look twinkling through his eyes. “Really? How fascinating. What in Hel would a pretty little thing like you need to borrow a big, dirty metal plate for?” He took a casual step closer. Loki cautiously stood his ground.

“…ash sledding.” Loki grimaced at his own stupid lie.

The man laughed. “You seem a bit old for ash sledding. What are you, sixteen?”

“Nineteen.” Loki didn't know why he corrected him. Maybe believing he was younger would have been better for his dumb excuse. The man even seemed to brighten at it, strangely. “Anyway, it is for my little brother.”

“Well, aren't you a good big brother, stealing high quality metal so he can have the best sled in town.” The man looked like he was having far too much fun. Like he didn't get to have this kind of fun very often and he was relishing it. “Tell you what.” He dipped his head, a mischievous smirk crossing his face. “I’ll let you keep it, if in exchange… you give me a kiss.”

Loki was appalled. What in Hel was with this guy? “Do not mock me.” Loki warned, irritated. His plan was so close to perfect and he wasn't going to let this weirdo get in his way. He needed to get out of here, with the plate. He felt a tingling at his fingertips.

The man only laughed. “What, you don't get that a lot? Surprising, I haven't even seen women around here half as pretty as you.” He casually leaned his arm against the tent pole, blocking any exit. “Come on, just a little peck and you're free to your prize. I won't even ask for it back. I’d say its a bargain for you. And it's either that, or you leave without the plate.”

Loki felt heat on his face. The man was actually serious. That, or he’d find a way to humiliate Loki the moment he did what he asked.

He didn't have much time, though. He needed to get out of this tent, metal plate in hand. He had no other choice. So he sighed, heaving the plate under one arm and gingerly stepping over to the man, who was smirking expectantly.

“Where?” Loki asked, making sure his voice dripped with annoyance.

“Oh, don't tempt me with that question.” The man grinned. But he indicatively tapped his own lips. “And at least pretend to like it.”

So Loki swallowed and slowly got closer, placing his free hand gently on the man’s bicep, his fingers like butterflies on his skin, leaned in, breath catching and…

In a flash, he had ducked down under the man’s arm and was past his body before he could realize what had happened. The man whirled around to see the fleeting straps of the young intruder’s garments flapping behind him, metal plate glinting in the sunlight of the flung-open tent.

Damn, he’s fast. The man thought, slightly disappointed. He grinned to himself, though. He definitely hoped to see that green-eyed, raven-haired boy again.

 

Loki tried not to look flustered as he walked as casually as he could back through the maze of tents, metal plate tucked as inconspicuously as he could manage. He tried to forget and shake off that odd encounter; he had far more important things to focus on right now. Everything rested on this. He couldn't afford to be distracted right now.

The next couple of items he needed were a far bit easier to steal. His tribe’s shaman was always sleeping. They said it was the cold, the lack of sunlit energy that made him drowsy all the time, but Loki remembered the time before the darkness. Shaman Findan was a snoring old man as long as Loki had been alive. It was one of the few things he could count on. As sure as the lava flowed from Surtr’s mountain.

After stashing his metal plate behind the shaman’s cottage, he strode right up to the entrance this time.No real need for sneaking around here. He was almost always in this house as it was, for one reason or another.

This cottage was better lit than the tent was. Candles everywhere, a firepit at the end, and bright magic orbs here and there. Well, magic as in chemical components constantly reacting in a glass sphere. But they looked magic to all the non-alchemists who entered the place. Which was most people.

The floorboards creaked under his soft, felted boots, but that didn't worry him. He was in his place, here. Nothing out of the ordinary. He could do something he never did in here and no one would be the wiser. It wasn't as though anyone paid attention to the workings of alchemists and shamans. They had better things to do, like bashing each other with wooden swords or spearing hogs through the skull.

As expected, the shaman was asleep in his usual chair, rocking gently. He snored loudly, his old nasal passageways not clear as they had been in his youth, or so he liked to say. Loki had a mind to think Findan had never been a quiet sleeper, and perhaps that's why the old man never had a woman for long.

There was a young boy in here as well, sleeping feverishly on one of the cots. Loki looked at him wistfully. A boy of around four, Loki did not know him by name, but he remembered seeing him playing with the other children a few days ago, all lust for life. Now he was pallid and sweaty and looked flatter than the bedsheet.

Loki had to turn away. He knew this illness, born of the toxic chemicals in the air. It liked to hit the youngest and the oldest. It was not a pretty or peaceful illness by any means. The shaman would do well to ease this boy to the afterlife sooner than later.

Loki put it out of his mind, and turned to the cabinets. The drawer with the sacred pigments, used to create paints for the ritual markings. The old man would paint rocks, trees, and skin alike with these, depending on the ocassion. He often let Loki help.

But Loki was looking for a specific color. There was a special reddish ochre pigment with flecks of metallic blue in it that was the signature of all shamans. No one knew how they made this pigment, and it was a secret well kept. Not even apprentices were allowed to know how to make it. Only masters were privy to this information.

All Loki knew was that the old shaman brought it back already crushed and ground after one of his spiritual journeys alone, disappearing into the ashen fog. Sometimes Loki wondered what would happen to that knowledge if the old man was lost out there forever.

At last, he found it. Hidden in plain sight. It was a good method of avoiding pointing it out as special, but Loki knew how to look. He drew out the jar, and opened the lid.

Glancing over to ensure the old shaman was still sleeping, and then to the door to look for anyone else, he quickly set to work. Pulling out a tiny, empty container, he quietly scooped a bit of the pigment, dropping the rusty, speckled powder into his own container. He quickly sealed the lids on both and returned the pot to its place.

Under the cabinet he found his final needed item; a fine-point brush. He grabbed it, and put it and his small container of pigment in one of his large belt pockets.

He could not stop one last, mournful glance at the sickly boy before he left. It was likely the last time he would see the child alive, though he would rather remember him how he saw him last. Happy and running and full of life. With a heavy heart, he turned and stepped out into the sunlight.

Onto the next phase.

 

It took longer than he would have preferred to clean up that piece of metal. The soot was thick and turned to ink on the damp piece of cloth, getting all over his arms and clothes. That would not be coming out any time soon.

Annoyed, he sat back, stretching his spine which was throbbing from bending over for so long. It wouldn't do to be sore. He needed to be in his best shape. Not that his best shape was particularly impressive, but that just meant he couldn't afford to lose a sliver of it.

Finally, though, the piece of metal was clean and glossy. Tedious part over, now it was time to concentrate. The finer details needed to be perfect.

Stepping over to his bed, he pulled up the blanket and reached under; producing a single, brown chicken egg. He smirked as he remembered the chicken keeper shouting at and scolding one of the resident foxes that happened to be sitting by when Loki stole this egg from the basket. Well, at least he wouldn't be suspected.

He glanced out at the window as he passed by it. The sun was up nearing the middle of the sky, now. Loki felt a tingling sense of dread. He had to hurry, there wasn't much time left.

Quickly he set to gingerly cracking the egg and separating out the yolk using the shell halves. He had to be careful; he foolishly only stole one. He let the yolk drip into the little, open container of pigment he had stolen earlier, and set about to mixing.

The yolk gave the reddish ochre a richer tone as he created this tempera paint. The metallic blue flecks darkened and shone, standing out. Once consistent, he brought the pot over to the metal plate that he had rested against the wall beside his bed. Then, he brought out the stolen paintbrush, and began to work.

He knew the symbol by heart, having practiced a hundred times on parchment, in the sand and mud. But he took care not to mess up. Every little detail needed to be perfect, or this wouldn't work.

It took longer than he would have liked; story of his day, so far. But finally the symbol was finished. Swirling lines and tiny runes in such precise detail they looked like they had been painted by a mouse with a single horsehair. All in the reddish ochre that looked gold on the plate, blue flecks glinting. The paint glistening.

Now all he had to do was put it up and-

“Loki?”

Loki jumped out of his skin as his door began to open, and quickly threw a blanket over the metal plate just in time for a grizzled face to appear in the doorway.

It was Odin, Loki’s father, who stood before him. He was a tall man, well-built and strong for his age. His hair and beard were long and silver, his face wrinkled, skin worn and scarred from many decades of battle. A bag under his good eye, which wrinkled at the corner. He was dressed in his best furs, his ceremonial garments; his sword at his hip, glorious in its ornate handle crafted by the best blacksmith in Asgard.

The old man raised a messy, silver eyebrow. Loki had just in time positioned himself in a way that it looked like he had just been about to reach for a book.

“Oh, good afternoon, father.” Loki kept his nerves out of his voice and did his best to sound nonchalant. “To what do I owe this honor?”

The man let the door swing the rest of the way open, but remained in the doorway, crossing his arms. Loki could swear even the socket that was once his father’s eye under its patch was glaring at him to match the other one. He desperately hoped the man did not look to his left and see Loki’s haphazard attempt to hide his work. If he saw it, everything he had prepared would be for naught.

“You know how important this day is, do you not, boy?” The man began gruffly. Blessedly he did not seem interested in looking around.

“Of course, father. It is the day that my dear brother Thor will champion the band of great heroes that shall go forth and rescue our lands from the fiery rage that is Surtr.” Loki responded smoothly.

The old man snorted. “It is nothing to do with your brother, he must contest like the rest of them.” He raised his chin. “If this quest does not succeed, we will all die. Our lands gone from us, buried in ash. All in your lifetime, boy. Do you want to die this way? Choked by ash and poison?”

“No, father.”

“The contest to decide who will undertake this quest is occurring shortly, and I will not tolerate any meddling whatsoever.” His voice was so stern that it was almost dangerous. Loki knew how important this day was. The day that began the journey to right the wrongs Odin and the fellows of his generation had committed. It was everything. It was sobering to hear him in this desperate voice.

“I would not dream of it.” Loki said.

Odin scoffed, “I daresay you have dreamed of a thousand ways to turn this day into a mockery.” Something strange under his voice.

Loki frowned and slowly got to his feet. He held his hands up at either side, “Father, I swear I have no intentions to disrupt this contest.” He used his most convincing voice. “I see the dead and dying every day in the house of the shaman, I am not oblivious to what this quest means to Asgard.”

The elder looked him over, thought clear in his face. After a few moments he looked to the left in consideration. Loki’s heart caught in his throat as his father looked right at the blanket clearly covering something, and he dared not breathe for several long moments.

Gods be praised, his father soon turned his head back again, seemingly not having noticed anything out of the ordinary. Loki did well in keeping the relief from his face.

“Perhaps you are speaking truth.” Odin said. “However, I have no intention of risking that.”

Loki looked surprised, “What?”

Rather than answering, Odin pulled a key from his pocket, and began closing the door in front of him.

“Wait, no! Father, please!” Loki leapt forward in alarm.

Odin paused.

“You would not even allow me to support my brother?” Loki begged.

Odin looked at him considerately for a few moments, before responding simply, “No.” And with that, he closed the door, the metallic sound of a lock clicking in place, and Loki was alone.

Gods be damned. This complicated things quite a bit. He ran over to his window and peered at it. It had been nailed shut; windows that hadn't opened in ten years. The less toxic air that got inside the better. Pressing his head against the glass, he looked down. It was a far drop from this second-story room.

Remembering suddenly, he then hurriedly threw the blanket from the metal plate and was relieved to see the paint was still wet and unstreaked. No time to waste now.

 

 

The quest was really quite simple in design. So simple, that it felt like a splash of cool water when the convention of shamans relayed it to their respective peoples.

The plan was to enter Helheim, ask the goddess of death, Hela, to resurrect a Fireborn, return them to the land of the living, and present them to Surtr. Even the mountain stopped rumbling for a few moments when the plan was announced. The shamans believed this a sign that the fire god may be appeased by the quest.

Of course, it was not so simple in the details. The first matter to attend was that of getting into Helheim in the first place.

So the shaman had sacrificed ten horses and their riders, the ten best horsemen in Asgard and their fastest stallions, to Meili; the god of travel. In reward, they were gifted ten seals; marks that would allow passage into the realm of the dead. Without those marks, the living could not pass through.

Of course, these marks had a catch to them. Whoever was marked with them had a month to reach the gates of Helheim, else they would have their souls ripped from their flesh and dragged there alone. So it was important that they went to the right men. The very best.

It was also important that these men be the sons of the warriors who had committed the atrocity. The generation that would inherit Asgard, these would right the wrong of their fathers. This was the only way to appease Surtr. It was balanced.

Thus came the day of the great contest. All of the tribes of Asgard united once again, this time to fix the mistakes of the past. Here they came, bringing their sons to fight in the contest of strength and ability, to the lands of Eldreheim. Centermost of them all.

On this day would be decided by combat which ten sons of the father generation would ride forth to Helheim, to return what had been wrongly taken from the world.

 

“Anthony of the Starks.” The voice of shaman Garth, named speaker of the shaman. He was a thin, sharp man with piercing gray eyes and a beak of a nose.

The young blacksmith stepped forward, wearing the same dyed leathers from earlier when he had caught that pretty thief in his tent. The leathers were vibrant in the sunlight, which glinted off his belt buckle.

The shamans said the sun shining was a sign that Surtr approved of this contest, of this quest to bring his children from the dead. Anthony was smarter than that, though. It was nothing more than the strong winds that buffeted the higher realms of the skies that day. Not to say he didn't believe in the gods and their powers. Only that he did not believe Surtr would grant such a petty boon.

Anthony glanced over the crowd before him. Since they had all gathered to begin the contest, he was hoping to catch a glimpse of those green eyes again, more vibrant than any he’d seen in his life, even in the dim of the tent. Yet, he had no such luck. There were thousands of men, women and children here, as far as the eye could see. There was no way he could spot a single person in such a gathering.

“As the firstborn son of the late Howard of the Starks,” the shaman continued, “the man who slew the last Fireborn; you were chosen to lead the nine champions on this day, without need of trial by combat. Do you accept this burden?”

Anthony had wondered if he might hesitate when the moment came, but he’d thought through it so many times over so many months, that his voice rang out in surety. “I accept.”

“Do you accept the seal of Hel, gifted to us by the mighty and swift god Meili of travelers? Knowing that should you fail to reach Helheim within one month, your life and claim to Valhalla shall be forfeit?”

“I accept.” Anthony said again.

“Bring forth the seal.” The shaman called out.

Another shaman stepped forward, an iron rod in his hand. At the other end of the rod was an engraved metal plate, red hot.

He had chosen the center of his chest as the place for the seal, and there, bare of clothing, he had been painted in the reddish ochre of the shamans to signify that he was fit for this quest. It was at the center of this circular design that the iron rod was brought.

Anthony tried not to cry out, clenching his teeth and fists, tried not to pull away as the searing heat was pressed into the skin of his chest. The smell of burning flesh and hair wafted up and tingled in his nose and made him feel ill. As it was brought away, he felt the mark in his bones. Burning hot and cold, he looked down to see the angry red mark beginning to puff up.

No turning back now. The realization was cold in his stomach and rising to his throat. The sundial was officially in motion. The seconds counting down.

Moving on from him already, the shaman continued. “Now, in the expanse you see before you, your strongest warriors will face off against each other; proving who among you is fit to bear the remaining nine marks. May the gods bless all champions this day.”

The crowd of contenders was massive, and roaring as they shouted in cheer. Hundreds of muscular warriors stood before them, each painted with the reddish ochre shaman markings on different, chosen body parts bare for all to see. The blue-flecked markings that confirmed each had been looked over by a shaman and was deemed fit for the contest. Anyone without it was not permitted to contend.

It would be a fight to the death for some; those who had the pride not to yield, those who misstepped fatally. Weapons and armor of any sort were permitted, no rules. The sands would bloody this day. Anthony was not unhappy to not be partaking.

 

The sun was low in the sky by the time the crowd of champions began dwindling.

Each faced off one against one, in pairs across the field, several at a time. But all had to wait their turn. Some who won their first rounds would go against new, fresh warriors, others against champions. It was messy, and not particularly organized. But things like this rarely were in Asgard.

The ashy sands were indeed bloodied. Gashes slit through tissue, blood dumped through noses and headwounds. Severed body parts lay scattered about. Bloody fingers, entire hands or arms, even a nose. Blood turning dark, dead flesh turning purple. Fourteen men had died already, and countless others suffered horrific wounds. It was not a play fight by any means, but the champions were beginning to take shape.

First to win all of his, of course, was the golden boy, Thor. He hardly suffered a scratch; the blood and gore sprayed across his body was not his own. Several of the men that had died thus far were of his doing. It was not likely to survive the blunt force of his mighty hammer. Many skulls had been caved in by that weapon this day.

Others thus far were Steven of the Rogers, with his titanic body, massive strength and mastery of the shield, and Clint of the Bartons, master of the bow. Clint hadn't a scratch on him. His arrows did not allow his contenders an inch closer, disabling them with extreme precision. Severing hamstrings and thus downing his opponents was his specialty.

Lady Sif was one of a very small handful of woman warriors who had joined the fight, and she had bested men twice her size. Most terrifying of all, however, was that of Bruce, of the Banners. He came from a line of berserkers; fierce warriors that, when in a battle rage, grew twice their own size in height and muscle. The brutalization of his opponents was horrific, and he even rampaged into the onlooking crowd itself, blinded by bloodlust. Many onlookers were wounded by the time he was under control.

Those that were still looking to win their own last fights were Fandral with his fancy swordplay, Hogun with his maces, and Volstagg with his axe and size; among a few others. The crowd was indeed dwindling, the champions taking shape. Only a few fights left and the people of Asgard would know their heroes.

A huge warrior called Fell roared at the remaining crowd of contenders awaiting their turns. He had won five fights and sported the blood of his opponents across his chest and face. He was a fearsome sight, barechested and mighty, holding a massive great sword so lightly like it was a dinner knife.

“Who dares challenge my right to champion?” He bellowed. His teeth were red with blood. Glances were exchanged. No one wanted to fight this titan if they did not have to. No one would deny he deserved his place in the champions of ten.

“I dare.”

The small crowd of contenders and many onlookers within audible range all looked to see where that soft voice came from. The massive bodies parted and out stepped slender Loki from between them. Long, raven hair flipped to one side and fastened in a loose braid with a golden clasp. Clad in dark leathers and a minimal amount of armor, wielding two small shortswords proportionate to his size.

A large gap was designed in the back of his tunic, intended to show the bare of his back, and there was a symphony of gasps when onlookers saw it. Most loudly from Thor, who had realized what was going on, and had a look of horror on his face as he gazed at his little brother.

The painted mark of the shaman, in that reddish ochre, metallic blue flecks shimmering in the sunlight, there across his shoulder blades. The symbol that permitted him to fight the titan before him.

All was quiet in the battlefield.


	2. Chapter 2

From where he stood beside the champions, Anthony stared at the bare back of the slender, raven-haired young man that stood alone on the battlefield, towered over by the massive warrior that was Fell. This was the same boy he himself had cornered in his tent earlier that day. He seemed less like a dirty child and more like a graceful dancer, now. Yet, how could this toothpick he’d so easily trapped before hope to contend against a hulk with three times Anthony’s own strength and mass?

Beside him, the champion Thor choked out, “Brother! What in Hel are you-”

“LOKI!” A booming voice roared from the crowd. People hurriedly made way for the red-faced Odin as he strode towards his son.

However, his path was blocked by several shaman and their guardsmen. He fought with them, but they held him back.

“Father Odin.” Shaman Garth warned. “You have not the rights to approach the contenders whilst the match continues.”

“That is my son, and he has no business being here!” Odin growled. From where he stood, he bellowed out, “Loki, I will have you in the stocks for a month for this!”

“But he does have business, Father Odin. Look.” The shaman said, extending a finger in Loki’s direction. “He bears the mark of the shaman.”

“Oh? And which of you featherheads gave this boy with no business holding a weapon that mark?” Odin spat.

“Do not dare insult us, Father.” One of the shaman warned. It was a grave mistake to insult a speaker to the gods, something Odin forgot in his rage. Or perhaps did not care. “Whichever of us gave your son the mark has no obligation to name himself, nor his reasons.”

“Because none of you gave it to him.” Odin snarled. “He has done it to himself!”

The shamans all laughed, as did some of the onlookers. “The mark is on his back, Father.” Garth pointed out. “I would be most impressed to hear how a man could paint such fine details upon his own back.”

“And besides, it is in the shaman’s pigment.” Another brought out. “There is none other like it.”

Odin, who had seen enough of Loki’s tricks to see through this charade, had enough of this; and turned to where Loki stood regarding him coolly. “Boy, you give up this mischief now! This is no game!”

“Father is right, Loki.” Thor’s voice was pleading. “You will die if you fight this man!”

Loki turned to his brother and smirked. “Then you shan't have to worry about my causing trouble while you are away.”

Thor looked incredulous. Anthony looked impressed at his complete lack of fear. Odin looked angrier than ever.

Loki turned back to Fell, who was staring down at him with mild annoyance. “Now then, if you think you have rested long enough to hope to contend with me, shall we dance?”

Fell let out a booming, fearsome laugh. Blood dripped from his mouth. “Brave words, boy. It is only for the shaman’s mark that I waste my time with you. Once I have snapped you in two, I will take my rightful place beside the champions.”

Loki dipped his head. “So say you.”

They took their places at opposite ends of one of the ashy sand circles. This one was well-used, and pools of dried and fresh blood dotted it. Tufts of hair on the ground rustled in the wind, the chunks of flesh at their ends bloodied and sticking to the grass. None of it seemed to bother Loki. To onlookers, he seemed like a sheep near the slaughterhouse, oblivious to its impending demise, despite all the signs.

Fell lifted his massive greatsword and dropped the tip, thumping against the soft ground, before bringing it up again into a wielded position, sand flinging out from it. His shadow cast across the circle was hulking like a massive pile of stones and screamed of impending doom.

Loki’s shadow was naught more than a young tree swaying in the wind, his little swords looking more decorative than useful. Perhaps they could slice cheese well.

As Fell roared and charged forward, kicking up rusty sand behind his boots. The onlookers held their collective breaths, waiting for the inevitable gory cutdown.

But as the greatsword came down in its slashing motion, meant to cut the pale boy straight in half, it was met with shimmering air, and went straight through him.

All, including Fell himself, stared in shock. The ghostly, now-quivering image of Loki winked and dissipated in a wisp of blue vapor.

“Witchcraft!” Someone shouted.

“Indeed.” Came a soft voice from behind, almost indiscernible from the wind.

Fell hadn't a moment to turn when he was struck on the back, and he howled in pain as the two shortswords sliced a deep X into his flesh.

Blood and fatty tissue spraying out, he whirled around and faced the real Loki, whose razor-sharp swords now dripped dark red.

Enraged, the warrior lunged forward, swinging the greatsword with all his might. But the brute was slow, with all his weight and heavy sword, and Loki neatly sidestepped the blow. The sword hit the sand, sending it spraying like waves against a rock and causing the warrior to stumble.

The crowd wasn't sure who to cheer for as this happened repeatedly. The sweat dropped from Fell, mixing with the blood and flying off as he angrily ripped the greatsword from the ground it had impaled each time; each time, Loki nimbly avoiding the blow. It was like trying to hit a fruit fly with an iron. Fell became more and more infuriated with every miss.

“I will bleed you and fuck you into the ground!” He roared with blind rage.

Loki only laughed as he dodged another blow with ease.

Yet Fell was no fool. He caught on to Loki’s pattern of movement, and, feigning recovery, he suddenly swung unexpectedly in a downward curve.

Thor shouted as he foresaw the death of his little brother, and Anthony’s breath caught in his throat. Yet, rather than the sickening thud of sword meeting flesh and bone, the field rang out with the earpiercing sound of metal hitting metal. People covered their ears from the awful sound. Those who had been fighting their own battles stopped and stared. Gasps of shock overtook the crowd.

Fell had indeed hit square on, and would have sliced the young man down the middle; yet Loki had brought up his two shortswords in the last moment, which impossibly held the greatsword fast.

Most awing was what looked like green fire had spread down his arms and up his pair of swords, and his eyes glowed bright with the same emerald tone. He held back the greatsword with all of the mighty warrior’s weight and strength behind it; and he hardly looked to be struggling. It was a ridiculous sight, and Fell himself could scarcely believe what was happening.

“What… What is this?!” He shouted.

“Power.” Loki said so quietly, only Fell could hear. “Power the likes of you will never know.”

With that, the green flame rippled and Loki strongly threw the greatsword and the warrior behind it off, causing Fell to stumble backwards. Now Loki was the one on the offense, leaping forward and slashing downward in quick, deadly motions, the green flame trailing behind every arc.

Fell could hardly block the rapid strikes, catching a few with an earpiercing clang on his greatsword, others with his forearms and a hiss of pain as the blades cut deep and burned. He was being pushed backwards by the far smaller man, and soon found himself falling onto his backside, shielding his body and face from the onslaught with his now-tattered arms, strips of flesh hanging down.

The warrior refused to back down, however. He roared and leapt up at Loki, through the blows, sword flung to the side, trying to catch his little neck in his muscular hands. Blinded by blood in his eyes, he missed terribly and landed on his side with a thud, howling as the sand poured into his wounds and stung like a thousand wasps.

Loki was on him in an instant. Blue, flickering tendrils burst from the ground and wrapped themselves around the warrior’s muscular arms, pinning him onto his back. Loki threw the shortswords to the ground, embedding rigidly into the sand, and brought a foot down onto Fell’s chest where he lay, crouching over him.

He had brought out a long, needle-sharp dagger from his belt that glinted in the sunlight, and held it over Fell’s throat, positioned to plunge.

“Move, and I will pierce your jugular before your heart can beat one last time.” Loki warned with a soft voice.

Fell snarled and writhed against the tendrils, taking no note of the warning. Loki struggled to keep him pinned, nearly losing his balance. He made the tendrils tighten and brought his face close to the warrior’s, grabbing him by the chin. The brute’s face was caked in bloodied sand and sweat and saliva.

“Look at me.” Glowing green eyes met enraged gray ones, one stained rusty with blood, which dropped from his eyebrow. Loki’s voice was gentle. “Think. You are a strong and fierce warrior. Your people will need you in the coming dark times. Your strength would be wasted in Valhalla. Yield and live. Fight another day.”

In a last fighting attempt, Fell roared with effort as he strained to bring his tensed hand up, trying to reach for Loki’s throat. His blood-coated fingers only brushed the young man’s pale face before his strength gave out and he was forced back down.

He stopped fighting, and let out a frustrated groan. After several moments, without looking at Loki, he finally said in a hoarse, broken voice, “I yield.”

With his admission of defeat, Loki let up on the pressure, removing his foot from the man’s chest. With a downward flick of his wrists, the green flame was snuffed and the blue tendrils disintegrated into the air.

The crowd erupted in a strange cacophony of cheering and angry shouting and booing. Some even screamed that he was a witch and should be burned in sight of the gods. Though, those were mostly from Fell’s own tribe.

Loki turned, ignoring the noise, and started walking back towards the contenders, picking up his shortswords on the way, leaving the defeated warrior hacked and bleeding and in shock. Loki was covered in the spray of Fell’s blood, and five red fingerprints decorated his face. But he was unharmed, unfazed, and nonchalant. He passed by awed faces as he waded through the contenders, who moved by to let him pass, flicking the blood from his blades and sheathing them.

Thor was speechless and in shock. He looked like he was in a waking dream, and found himself sinking down to the ground to recover. Anthony, with raised eyebrows, asked Loki as he came closer, “What do I have to do to learn that?”

Loki gave him a withering look with those bright eyes. “How about a kiss?” He responded venomously as he passed the blacksmith.

Anthony only grinned as he watched that slender figure walk away. “Ouch.”

 

Not long after Loki’s victory wherein he had wrested the right to Fell’s place in the ten, the rest of the champions were decided. The company now consisted of Anthony of the Starks, Thor son of Odin, Steven of the Rogers, Bruce of the Banners, Clint of the Bartons, Lady Sif, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, and Loki son of Odin. Never before had someone looked so out of place in this lineup than Loki did now. Even Lady Sif looked ten times the warrior than he. Yet here he stood. Covered in nearly as much dried blood as the rest of them. It was like his childhood dreams.

Thor kept glancing down at his brother, who stood beside him now. He had so many questions burning within him, so many things he wanted to say. He wanted badly to discourage Loki from taking the seal. But now was not the time. The shamans had demanded silence, and silence they received. Thor was too righteous to break it.

“Ten champions, ten seals to Helheim.” Shaman Garth’s voice rang out. “These are the brave men and woman that will go forth in our stead, go where no living soul has gone before, and heal the wounds of the father generation before. These are your champions! The heroes that will wrest us from the fiery grip of Surtr! What say you to this?”

The crowd of thousands erupted into a cheer so loud it must have traveled across all the lands and shattered icicles where they hung. The hope and exhilaration in their voices rang out. At long last, the ten years of ash and poison and death would come to an end and the sun would shine once more. That was what they saw in these ten warrior youths.

The shaman held a hand up for silence, and the cheering died down. “As I have with Anthony of the Starks, I must ask each of you; do you accept the bid to follow this man to the depths of Helheim and retrieve the last Fireborn?”

The nine voices shouted in unison, “I accept!” The sound resonated across the field.

“Do each of you accept the seal of Hel, gifted to us by the mighty and swift god Meili of travelers? Knowing that should you fail to reach Helheim within one month, your life and claim to Valhalla shall be forfeit?”

“I accept!”

“Then on this day, you are bound to this quest. May the gods give you strength.”

All took the seals with raised chins and bitten cheeks as they burned into the flesh of their chosen body parts. Even Loki, who was not so accustomed to pain as the rest, whose skin was far softer than the rough, scarred hides of the warriors, managed to keep from crying out as the hot iron was brought between his shoulder blades.

The cheering of the crowd did not stop for a long while, and continued as they all began heading to the area of the great feast. The chanting and singing echoed across the fields. The smell of cooking flesh wafted from where the thousands of makeshift tables awaited down nearer the village.

As he followed the contenders and the retreating crowd, Loki felt tired, but overwhelmingly satisfied. His plan, despite all delays and hiccups, went perfectly. He was in the champions of ten. He was headed to Helheim. It was everything he wanted. Everything he needed. There would be time to fear what came next. Right now, he was looking forward to this victory feast. His stomach rumbled at the smell of it.

Yet, he was jolted from his thoughts by a strong hand pulling him backwards. He was spun around and faced with his father, Odin, who held his arm fast. He did not look one bit happy.

“Come, boy.” He said gruffly, and started walking away, dragging his son behind him.

Loki tried to twist his arm from his father’s strong grip as he was pulled along, panic fluttering in his chest. “You cannot stop it now, father.” Loki said frustratedly. “I bear the seal, if you lock me away you will only be killing me.”

“I am aware.” Odin growled. “We are going hunting.”

Loki looked surprised. “Hunting? But the feast-”

Odin swung around looked Loki in the eyes with his one. “Have you ever killed, boy?”

Loki stared at him, blinking. He did not know what to say.

“I know you have not. On this journey, your brother and the others will kill a great many men. Raiders, enemies. Any who stand in their way. I do not think you are capable of killing anything, boy, not even a boar. I do not think you have the skin for it. And that makes you a hindrance. I will not allow anyone to slow down this mission, even if it means wasting a seal, even if it mean sacrificing my own son.”

Loki finally ripped his arm away, rubbing it. “I may not have killed before, but I can, and I will.” His voice was determined. If he had to kill a boar to prove it, he would.

Odin laughed harshly, “We will see about that.” He looked to one of his men. “Saddle our horses. We ride before the sun sets.”

Loki sighed. So much for the feast.

 

—-

 

The quarter-moon had risen in the sky, and the air was frosty and biting. As his breath clouded out in front of him, Loki wished he had worn more furs.

The horses snorted, moisture spraying out from their noses. There were five of them. Loki rode beside his father, and a company of three of his men rode behind.

The puffing burn of the seal stung between his shoulder blades and itched terribly. He cursed the necessity of the location as his outer coats rubbed and aggravated it.

The silence had been deafening his ears for hours, broken only by the noise of hoofbeats on the crackling, frosty grass and the ocassionally whinny. And it had taken as long for Loki to think through the most respectful way to word what he wished to say to his father, and finally he cleared his throat to speak.

“Father, you must understand that this company will not make it very far without me.” He began.

His father threw a look over his shoulder that screamed of incredulousness. “I dearly look forward to hearing how you worked that one out.”

Loki sighed. He knew it was futile. But words were his trade, no matter how ineffective they were on the old man, and he had to try. “Surely you realize the journey to Helheim will not be a simple one. I strongly doubt there will be a straight path to Hela’s throne, and I also doubt it will be a simple matter of smashing through doorways to reach her. Yet that is all the other nine know. They need someone capable of looking at things differently.” There. He said it. No taking it back now, and nothing more to say. His father would take it as he would, with scoffing and anger, brushing him aside as a silly daydreamer as he had all his childhood.

And yet… the old man was strangely silent. Loki dared a glance. The elder was looking forward again, contemplative.

“Perhaps.” Loki was surprised at that word. But Odin continued gruffly, “Yet it matters not how many doors you may weasel through if they do not reach Helheim in time on account of babysitting you.”

Loki did not bother to respond.

 

Loki had started to wonder what sort of animal they were hunting that they had to go so far into the forest, past all obvious signs of boar, when suddenly Odin halted his horse, motioning for the rest of them to do the same. His men dismounted and began tying all of their mounts to the trunks of the sickly evergreens.

Loki cautiously dismounted his own horse, the wiry black steed snorting and nuzzling one of its companions. Despite attentively attuning to their surroundings, he could not fathom why his father chose this place to stop. The forest was silent and eerie at this time of night, and the mystery held a nervous edge in his stomach.

“What are we hunting?” Loki asked quietly.

Odin did not honor him with a response as he took his sword from where it was fastened to the horse and strapped it to his own belt. “Come. And be silent.” He said, and started off deeper into the forest, ash-crusted dead leaf litter crunching under his heavy boots.

Loki frowned and followed suit, his own footfalls nearly silent, and the three other men came up close behind him.

After a long while of walking, Loki was perplexed when he spotted through the trees an orange glow, flickering in the dim. An encampment? Of whom, so deep in the forest? Loki knew better than to vocalize his questions.

As they drew nearer, the sound of rowdy laughter reached his ears, and he saw the movement of bodies around the fire through the needle-edged break in the trees. When they were very close, Odin crouched down in the shadows, hand on the hilt of his blade, and his men did the same. Loki slowly copied, yet unsure of what was happening.

The smell of roasting meat hit his nose, and it made his stomach lurch. He had not had the chance to eat since breakfast, and even simple flesh over a campfire smelled like a feast of Valhalla at the moment.

As he looked closer and his eyes adjusted, he realized they were watching a band of raiders, loud and raucous and seemingly drunk. There were three goats that hung roasting over the pit, carefully skinned of their pelts, which rested aside, likely to be used later. Loki recognized the pelt pattern. These were stolen from Odin’s own vast herds.

After a moment, Loki felt a prickling sensation on his neck and turned to see his father gazing at him.

“If you kill one man tonight,” Odin whispered gravelly, “You are free to journey to Helheim.”

Loki felt a cold chill in the pit of his stomach when he realized what was happening. This was no boar hunt after all.

“If you fail…” He continued, his voice serious. “I hope you have the mind to stay back yourself and allow the nine to go unburdened by your weakness.”

They held their gaze for a while, before Loki silently nodded his understanding.

With that, Odin rose and signaled to his men, and they exploded up from the ground, war cries bursting out as they charged towards the encampment.

Loki was silent and slower to follow, sticking at the rear and watching, moving fluidly through the shadows. The men in the encampment were drunk and taken by surprise. Despite vastly outnumbering Odin’s men, Loki knew it would not go well for the raiders.

Screams of pain echoed through the forest as the firelight licked the gory scene Loki circled the edge of. Odin cut down a man with his greatsword as easily as cutting down wheat with a sickle. The raiders fought back like cornered animals, vicious, but they stood no chance against these trained, seasoned goliaths.

In the shadow of a tree at the edge of the clearing, Loki watched the flurry of bodies as they ran and fought and died. Blood glistened in the firelight, black in the dim. He watched attentively and waited.

One of the raiders, eyes mad with fear and wine, was stumbling against the commotion, squeezing past fighting bodies and making a run for it. He half-blindly dashed for the trees, when one of the shadows came alive.

Loki’s eyes glowed with green fire as he advanced on the fleeing raider, who had stopped in his tracks. He held his two shortswords at each side, still encrusted with dried blood from the warrior he had cut down earlier that day.

In his shifting drunken vision, the raider did not see an unthreatening boy walking slowly towards him; he saw a pale, skeletal wraith in the night, bloody fingerprints across its face, weapons dripping black, eyes of ghostly fire; and he was horrified.

The raider stumbled backwards in his terror, but Loki had launched forward, blades erupting in green fire as he brought them down on the man. The raider brought up his own rusted, worn sword to block and rolled to his side to evade.

As the man got to his feet and made to run, Loki leapt into the air and landed a powerful kick to his back, causing the man to fall violently forward onto the ground.

The raider, nose and mouth bloody with the direct impact against the hard ground, quickly flipped over onto his back and sat up, but… the wraith was nowhere to be found. Eyes wide with terror, he looked around wildly, dirt flinging from his hair.

Suddenly, a clawed hand dug into his shoulder, and he felt the cold of metal against his throat, pinching as it bit into his skin. The green flames were gone, but the blades yet gave off a burning cold. The raider was rigid, breathing panicked.

Loki crouched behind the man, pressing the blade, when he realized he was being watched. He looked up to see Odin, sprayed with blood, long sword dripping gore, as he stood over him.

They locked eyes, green to blue, and neither moved for a long time. Loki felt the panicked breaths and stream of prayers resonate from the man in his grip. He felt his stomach wrench. This was a living person in his hands, with lifeblood he felt pumping under his fingers, with thoughts and prayers and a life before. Who was he to end it now? It would be so easy, just a press and a drag of the blade, but Loki found himself unable to move, frozen in place.

“You cannot do it.” Odin said softly. His eye knowing, gaze not unkind. He was looking into the eye of the father that appeared when the nightmares took him as a child, and felt the urge to drop the blade and run to him and bury his face in those strong arms as he had many years ago.

But then, the thoughts cleared from his head. The shouting and clanging of swords and crackling fire around him faded away. Nothing but the cold breath of the three men in this microuniverse, in this moment. Nothing but his father's blue eye. Time seemed to slow.

In the silence, he kept eye contact unbroken with his father as his blade hand pressed down hard into the soft neck flesh, drawing little streams of blood, and sliced it across with the sickening sound of knife cutting flesh and tendons and popping arteries. The gurgling cry came from the ripped-open throat itself as the dark blood flowed out, over the blade and Loki’s pale hands like red paint on a canvas.

Odin’s eye turned to horror as he looked into his son’s green ones, which had dropped the blanket of emotion he had seen in them just moments ago. The eyes of a child, gone and replaced with the cold eyes of a killer.

The dead man dropped to the ground into the expanding pool of his own blood, eyes open with deathly terror, and Loki slowly rose to a standing position, unblinkingly never breaking eye contact with his father for even a moment in all of this. His clothes were drenched with the dark blood, hands dripped red, spatter from the heart’s last pumping of lifeblood across his face and neck.

Odin felt the cold grip his stomach. His gentle son had died this night. Replaced by this blood-coated killer.


	3. Chapter 3

The sky was a deep, dark blue as morning came closer, the moon gone from the sky and the stars disappearing like snowflakes on the warming ground.

The dying embers of the fires released their last wisps of smoke into the air and mixed with ash from the mountain that fell sparsely like a fine snow. The chilly clearing was mostly empty now, save a few dozen sleepless drunkards and a great many others that had fallen asleep where they sat at their tables.

Fandral and Volstagg were two of those, having competed in a drinking match of epic proportions during the feast. It had been sickening to watch, despite the onward cheering. Thor now shoved the plump Volstagg a little where he lay facedown in the grass when it sounded like he was beginning to suffocate. That was not how the man intended to get to Helheim, he knew.

The rest of the champions had retired to their tents, some with women alongside; the Stark man had three to himself, making lewd comments as they passed by. The rest left alone, bidding their gracious goodnights. They would need all the rest they could get while they could. The coming times would not be forgiving.

Thor, though, had not even tried to sleep a wink as he sat at the ornate, awning-covered, honored champions table all night, looking out across the field, waiting for his father and brother to return. Foxes chased each other across the moor, yelping as they flew through the harsh grasses; but there was no sign of Odin and Loki.

He knew not the nature of their disappearance, having seen his father drag Loki off for who knew what. Thor knew better than to try and intervene, but he held a knot in his stomach all night for it. He could barely eat the feast of plenty placed in front of him by adoring servers, hardly listened to the boisterous and exaggerated tales of his exploits given by his shield brothers, nor the ones given for the other eight champions. Uncharacteristically,he had not been in the mood for the revelry and celebration.

Due to this, Thor had had a lot of time to think over the night; and think he did.

Loki’s showstopping performance yesterday explained a great many things from over the past year and a half, he had come to the realization. Things that had broken Thor’s heart at the time, and now left him feeling cold and confused and feeling betrayed.

He recognized the timing, now. It was when the messenger ravens of the shamans brought word of their plan for the quest they would now partake in, that Loki began to change. He stopped reading his books outside under the great, gnarled tree in sight of the clearing where Thor usually trained. He remembered looking at that tree like he always did, and feeling an emptiness where his brother was not.

Loki locked himself in his room most of the time. It was most often a great many days since Thor saw his face, to the point he worried he would forget what he looked like. Sometimes he would make his way to that locked door, and give it a tentative knock. From behind it always came an annoyed snarl to go away, which Thor had taken to rousing intentionally to ensure his brother was even alive.

When Thor did see his little brother, he was distant and distracted, as though always working something complex out in his mind that required every ounce of his focus. He disappeared often as well, and Thor knew he was not honest about his innocent explanations for it. Especially since he often came back with mysterious bruises, cuts, and burns; and even a limp, once.

But worst of all, when Thor tried to push back into his brotjer’s life, Loki vocally made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with his elder brother. This hurt Thor greatly, cut him to the heart. He often wondered if he had done something wrong. He thought he was losing his little brother.

When he brought up Loki’s hostile and antisocial behaviorto their father, Odin had sighed. “He must still be in mourning. Everyone behaves with it differently.” Came his best explanation. “Let him be to work things out. He will come around eventually.” Thor kept those words to heart. As the months went by, he dearly hoped his father was right.

But now… now Thor knew what the young man must have been up to.

Loki had always been a practicer of magic, but they were always minor illusions and party tricks used to cause mischief; or the healing magics of the shaman who trained him.

No one knew seiðr these days, all knowledge of the powerful magic gone for decades, erased from history. No longer was anyone was alive to teach the ways. So Thor did not know how, but somehow Loki, in all this time, had been teaching himself the long-dead seiðr magics. Magics that had not been seen in Asgard since sorcery had begun to lose out in popularity to raw strength centuries prior and had since dwindled to nonexistance.Magics lost and forgotten.

Magics Loki now used to defeat the warrior Fell and stake his claim as a champion.

But why? Why did Loki want so badly to join this quest that he would commit every waking moment of his days for nearly two years to learning magic powerful enough to get him through the contest?

That was what Thor did not know, what he wracked his brain over now. Loki had always wanted to be a warrior all of his young life, but why did this out of all things he had experienced in his life finally spur him to more drastic measures? Thor did not think it was out of care for Asgard. Loki had always held it and its people in contempt, bitter for the position he was forced into by way of his health.

So it was these conundrums regarding his brother, along with the expansive fears and worries of the days to come, that ruminated in Thor’s mind all night. Spinning restlessly in circles in his mind as he sat at that wooden table beside his new, sleeping companions, becoming colder to the bones as the fire died out.

Suddenly, he was drawn from his sleepless musings by a whinny, and he looked up to see horses approaching from across the field. He quickly stood, causing the sleeping Fandral, who had slipped into resting his drooling face against Thor in his drunken stupor, to fall over and awaken as his head hit the wooden bench with a thud.

“Was- wha-?” The blonde man’s head bobbed as he looked around in bleary confusion.

Thor ignored him, beginning to stride across the yellowed, grassy field towards the approaching party of five horsemen.

When they were in view, his hopes were met as he realized, with great relief, that both his father and brother rode alongside three warriors Thor recognized as Odin’s shield brothers. As the relief flooded out of him, he noticed with surprise that behind the trotting horses stumbled a line of three rough-looking men. They looked quite battered and bloodied as they were pulled along by rough, shaggy ropes at the wrists, heads hanging dejectedly.

The party of five atop the horses were spattered with dried blood, but appeared well and unharmed. Odin’s three men picked up the pace, shouting at the bound men to walk faster as the lot of them passed Thor by. Odin and Loki remained at their leisurely pace as they approached the golden warrior. The pair of horses bumped heads and nipped at each other's ears, snorting frosty air from their nostrils.

“Father, brother. It is good to see you.” Thor couldn't keep the relief from his voice as he greeted them.

To his confusion, Odin did not respond, or even glance down at his son. He had an absent, odd look upon his weathered face that Thor did not understand. As dutiful men came up to take the reins of the horses, the old chieftain heaved himself off of the beast, landing on his heavy boots with a thud. He gruffly ordered one of the men to have his blade cleaned in a low voice as he passed them all by, heading towards the inner village.

Thor watched him go in perplexion for a few moments before he turned back to Loki.

The young man also had a distant look on his face, staring out at nothing in particular, a haunting in his green eyes; whatever color he usually had to his skin was gone. His nose was purple and he was shivering terribly. His pale, smooth skin disrupted by dry blood spatter. Thor cautiously stepped over and stood beside the black horse, a hand on its flank near where his brother’s leg hung down.

“Loki? Are you alright?” Thor asked, voice dripping with concern.

Loki glanced down at him, seemingly pulled out of his thoughts, and nodded after a few moments of mental calibration. He shook it off and went to swing down from his horse, landing softly in the grass, a bit shaky on his feet. Thor put a strong hand on his shoulder to steady him.

But Loki shook his brother off, and started after his father, wrapping his furs more closely around himself as he went crunching through the frosty grass.

Thor watched him go, sighing.

 

Blood-soaked clothing in the freezing night was not a comfortable thing, Loki noted, shivering badly as he stripped to his undergarments in front of the big, stone fireplace of the greatroom of his father’s house. It had not been not much different from being drenched in anything else when a chill was in the air, and it had seeped into his bones. He was glad to learn this lesson now, before the unforgiving days ahead. He would be sure to bring more furs, and take care not to sit idly while anything bled out over him; though he hoped that wouldn't be a problem again.

He relaxed as the heat of the fire soaked over his bare skin, his frozen nose, and sighed with relief. He was exhausted and starving to the point of feeling achy and too nauseous to eat, and the chill had clawed inside his bones. Yet now it was morning, and he would not have the chance to sleep and recover from his two sleepless nights in a row. His body was not prepared for the road ahead. He cursed his father to the gods.

Begrudgingly, he knew it had been necessary. It was a lesson he direly needed before the journey, even if it wasn't the lesson his father, who had seemingly counted on his failure, intended for him. A trial by fire to prepare him for the hard road ahead. He thought he had already known from the things he had done to get this far, but he deeply learned this night just how committed he was to this. How far he was willing to go, what he was willing to do.

Anything. That was what he was willing to do. Even cross that veil into the realm where no one could return. The realm of killers.

In his heart he had always known that one day it would happen. As the quest became real and his plan realized, he knew it would be soon. But it hadn't settled into his bones, his thoughts, his core.

Now it did. Now as he looked down at his warming hands, the image shifting in his overtired vision, the creases filled in with dried blood making the swirl of his fingerprints stand out like shaman marks.

He was a killer now. And his victim was only one of many to come. He’d come to that realization on the ride home. Yet, as someone who had trained as a healer and preserver of life all these years, he was surprised at how… fine with that, he was.

It had taken a while for him to realize that. To look back and understand his conflicting feelings at the time. The feelings that felt alien inside him. As though they originated elsewhere. It made him feel sick at first, when he realized what he was feeling.

There was a dark thing lurking inside of him, he knew now as it was drawn out naked into the light for the briefest of moments. It was always out of view, but always there; watching and waiting. Like a wolf in the dark, foggy woods. A dark thing that saw another man’s face in that nobody raider. A dark thing that felt an intense release when his blade dug deep into the flesh. A dark thing that saw this act as vengeance for what he had been wronged.

At first, that had frightened Loki. Those seemingly wrong feelings of satisfaction as the blood ran through his fingers, sticky like the sap of an evergreen in the flowing summer. But now…

Now he just felt numb.

 

Some time later, the sun was low in its rise, and the vast camp had stirred awake. The bustling of breakfast and metal things. The sound of wooden rods hitting each other with a thump and fabric flapping and ripping as tents were brought down. Wagons were being loaded and horses fed and watered. It would be a long, arduous journey back to their own lands for many, and most wanted to get a head start.

Thor sat on a wooden crate, arms between his legs as he picked at a blade of grass, watching the men load up his horse with his belongings. A few changes of clothing, furs and layers, a bedroll; all rolled up and secured to the horse with ropes and leather straps. In saddle bags were placed bundles of preserved foods; jerkies and solæg, beeswax-wrapped cheeses and dried goats milk, skins of mead and water and the like. There were also bandages and healing salves, a firesteel, carving knife, and other necessary survival supplies. Last of all, his choice assortment of armor and weapons; the mighty hammer Mjölnir included, of course.

Each of the ten horses was to be loaded up with a similar assortment, along with whatever else each champion wanted to bring along. Thor tried not to laugh as he noticed Volstagg’s horse weighted down by excessive edible supplies and wineskins.

Speaking of the man, Volstagg sat in the grass a little ways away, head bobbing and looking horrendous. Eyes bloodshot, nose red, skin a greenish hue. Fandral sat with his back to him, and looked to be in about the same state.

“Who won, anyway?” Fandral asked, sounding stuffy-nosed and miserable. “I lost track after the ninth cup.”

“The last thing I remember was the largest roast boar doing a stepdance before I awoke with a mouthful of grass this morn.” Volstagg burped, sounding close to vomiting. He looked blearily over at Thor. “I recall that you were in observance. Who won, my friend?”

“I daresay neither of you won.” Thor said in an amused voice.

“You may have a point.” Fandral said, putting his head in his hands. “Are you certain the Hawkeye did not, mistakenly or otherwise, put an arrow through my ears when he was showing off?”

Thor laughed, “You are going to have a rough start on this journey, my friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thor noticed a dark shape approaching, and turned to see Loki appearing from between the collapsing tents. He looked bathed; cleaned of blood, hair shining and in a fresh braid which hung over one shoulder. He wore dark, fitted leathers that washed him out, and had a fur-lined cloak over his shoulders that gave him a far more bulky outline than Thor knew he had underneath.

He did not look particularly fresh, though. He had circles under his eyes so dark that they almost looked like bruises. Thor wondered if he himself sported the same look, considering he hadn't much more sleep than Loki.

“Good morning, brother.” Thor greeted him.

Loki dipped his head in acknowledgement, and then seemed to notice Fandral and Volstagg in their horrendous state. He had an expression of tired curiosity.

“Hangover?” He asked, stopping in front of where the two warriors sat back to back, slumped over in the damp grass.

“To end all other hangovers.” Fandral confirmed, sighing miserably.

“Allow me.” Loki pulled off and dropped his cloak into the grass, and crouched in front of Fandral, who looked at him in bleary bewilderment. He brought his hand up and pressed his pale fingers to the blonde man’s forehead. His hand and eyes began glowing golden, the color swirling around and between his fingers. “Endurheimtat.” Loki uttered; his voice sounded odd, like it was wrapped in whispers.

Fandral blinked and put a hand to his head. “I… my headache, it is gone!” He sounded stunned. He suddenly looked in far better health as well, red gone from his eyes; he looked fresh as the morning. He stared in wonder as Loki moved over to Volstagg and repeated the spell upon the round man.

Fandral leapt to his feet as Volstagg was experiencing his own wonder at the rapid recovery; and when Loki stood back up, Fandral put an arm around his narrow shoulders. “My friend, I am never drinking without you again!” Fandral’s voice was merry. Loki just looked startled by the contact.

Volstagg rolled and struggled to his feet as well, and then took Loki by the arm, “Then you shall have to follow wherever I drink, Fandral, as he is remaining with me!”

Thor stood up and laughed as his bewildered little brother was pulled in two directions by the arguing warriors. At least he seemed to be making allies. This was good, Thor knew. The group would be together for a very long time in the upcoming future, thus the more camaraderie the better.

He was just about to step in and rescue Loki when a horn bellowed from a ways off, echoing through the air, and everyone turned to look down the field towards the source. The commotion and merriment died down instantly, the four champions exchanging knowing glances.

“It is time.” Thor said darkly.

Fandral and Volstagg released Loki and nodded gravely, turning and beginning the trudge towards the sound. The handlers of the champions’ horses began leading the snorting beasts down towards it as well, men scrambling to throw the last of the possessions into the saddlebags as the steeds moved away.

The sons of Odin stood beside each other, watching as people from the encampment began making their way across their field, scattered and sparse. Like ants congregating on a dead caterpillar.

“Brother.”

Loki glanced up at Thor. He sensed words that had been waiting a long while to be said in those serious blue eyes. He had a feeling as to what was coming.

“It is far too late to dissuade you now; with the seal you have taken, the only way I can preserve your life is to make sure you get to Helheim with the rest of us.” Thor sighed. He sounded as tired as Loki felt. “But the road will be hard, and know that I fear for your safety.”

Loki looked annoyed. “I am perfectly capable of handling myself. I do not need you worrying over or protecting me.”

“But you know that is exactly what I will do. I am your elder brother, Loki. It is my dut-”

“I'll not have you smothering me like a mother hen.” Loki interrupted, voice stern. “What's done is done, and it is each of our own duties to get to Helheim now. That is all that matters, from this moment on.” He had a fire in his eyes. “You will treat me as any of your shield brothers, you will focus on the mission, and you will not jeopardize this mission, the lives of every Asgardian, for mine. Are we clear?”

Thor was taken aback, blinking down at his brother. He was accustomed to Loki being vocally annoyed with him, but he had never taken on this commanding tone with him before. What had gotten into him?

Loki did not give him a chance to respond, however, as he stooped down to pick up his cloak from where it was crumpled on the ground and began padding after the crowd that was gathering far across the field. Thor lowered his head and followed, feeling confused and dejected.

 

Across the field, countless wooden poles had been raised together as far as the eye could see, like a forest of dead, stripped trees. The shaman all stood together, cloaked in their ratty gray and looking ominous. Beside them stood the chieftains of all the tribes, imposing in their ceremonial garb. Odin was among them, a look on his face colder than the morning. He had managed to avoid the appearance of exhaustion that seemed to ooze from Loki’s every pore.

The sky was darkened by the ash cloud, casting a shadow across the land. There was a chilly fog hugging the ground, sweeping across the grassy expanse and giving the wooden poles an eerie appearance. The ten horses of the champions huddled together a ways off, burdened by their loads, reins held by handlers.

Many from the camp had gathered, standing about a little ways off, solemnly watching and waiting. One by one, each of the ten champions arrived, assembling together in a line facing the shamans and chieftains and the wooden poles behind them. None of them looked particularly well-rested, no doubt spending the night sleepless in anxiety of the days to come.

Because it didn't matter how tough and experienced any of them were. No living soul had ever passed into Helheim before in history. It wasn't a place that was meant for them, and they all felt that wrongness in their bones. They knew not what to expect. There was nothing written nor spoken on the depths of Helheim to prepare them. They would be the first, if they made it at all.

A hush came over the crowd as the champions stood assembled, the time arriving. The only sound was of the breeze gliding through and rustling the pine needles of the trees afar, the crinkling of the piles of branches at the foot of each wooden pole.

Finally, shaman Garth spoke up, voice tired and gravelly but ringing in volume. “Today, we send the warriors chosen by right of contest forward on their journey. They will travel as far north as the ends of Asgard, where the god Meili will appear as he has promised to show to them the mouth of Helheim, into which they will cross over by right of the seals of Hel.” His words echoed and made the champions shiver with the sounding reality of it.

Ten of the shaman suddenly pulled fine, silver chains out of their sleeves; each with a pendant of what appeared to be yellowed bone. They began walking towards the champions, slow like reapers in their gray robes, wrapped feet soundless in the grass.

“The ten knuckle bones of the last Fireborn.” Garth explained. “One for each of you. Should you reach Helheim and the goddess of death grants to you the soul of the Fireborn, it is only from a piece of her body can she be reborn of flesh. Only one is required, but treat each as your lifeline.”

The champions lowered their heads and allowed the shaman to place the chains around their necks. The silver was cold against the skin, the small weight of the bones felt heavier than they were.

Ten chances. Only one needed to make it all the way. That said something about how the dynamics of this group of youths would be. Protect each other as they could, but no self sacrifice. Each bone, each person, was a chance; a single chance that was not to be wasted.

Odin stepped forward now, greatest of all the chieftains and chosen speaker. He bellowed out, “Bring forth the tributes.”

The crowds parted and along through came warriors dragging ropes behind them; ropes connected to men by the neck and wrists. The captive mens’ heads were lowered and sullen. Many were injured or bruised, appeared gray and sleepless. There was a smaller group coming ahead of a greater one; and within, Loki recognized, with a cold knot, two of them as the raiders they had captured last night.

The rest were criminals brought along by each tribe, he knew. Thieves, murderers, rapists. Despicable men. Animals. They were brought to the poles, each one to his own.

“On this day we send you forth as emissaries to Hela.” Odin said. “And we send you forth with a gift. May the great goddess of death take this tribute, and receive you kindly.”

Up upon the ten poles, the ten pyres, were tied criminals from the champions’ own tribes. Feet stood upon a wooden plank nailed to the pyre, torsos tightly bound, hands wrapped behind and secured. Loki and Thor each received one of the raiders from last night; Odin's tribute to Hela for his sons. Two men he had taken capture himself.

To the rest of the pyres went the remaining criminals, including those from tribes who did not have a winning champion. All would send tribute to Hela this day, praying for her good faith. Though some were hard and ready to meet their painful deaths with dignity, many of the sacrificed-to-be were pitifully wailing and sobbing and praying.

Men came forward with torches, igniting them with firestrikers. Loki felt the warm, splintering wood between his fingers as he was handed one of them, alongside the rest of the champions. Torches within the crowd were lit as well, the clanging of firestrikers resonating around them.

All bowed their heads, beginning to mutter prayers to Hela under their breaths, their bid she receive their gifts.

Loki thought as he looked down at the ground; beaten, yellowed grass dusted in ash and frost. The reality he would soon seek to change. _Receive me, O Hela, and I shall give you what you desire most; something the rest cannot gift you_ , he silently promised the goddess of death.

Looking up now, prayer done and said, he stepped forward; the first of them all to do so. He felt a great many eyes on the back of his neck, knew they would watch and wait until he lit the kindling. He hesitated; and looked up at the man who was tied by ropes to the wooden pyre.

Those eyes, looking down at him darkly. A cold, animal gaze glittering in the gray. Judging and daring, as though despite being the prisoner, he was somehow superior. All other gazes dropped away from his senses, and his universe was filled only with this one. This man he was about to send to Helheim in the most painful way imaginable. Loki froze, felt his breath catch. He glanced over at his father.

Odin had an odd look on his face as he gazed at his younger son. Something akin to hopefulness, perhaps. Loki did not understand why, but the dark thing inside of him did not like it. It wanted to snuff that expression, wipe it from his grizzled face. And there was only one way to do it.

Loki turned back, ignoring the gaze of his father, the gaze of the raider above him. Jaw set, he brought the torch forth unto the kindling at the base of the pyre.

It was quick to catch, and he soon threw the torch into the now-expanding fire. He stepped back, away from potential injury. The crackling resonated all around him as the other nine stepped forward to light their own pyres. The smell of burning wood and accelerants pierced his nose and engulfed him, threatening to carry him away.

It was not long until the screaming started. The horrific, tormented screaming of men burning alive. The futile writhing to get away from the pain and the inescapable killer all around. That acrid stench of human flesh burning. He fought the urge to be sick.

Soon the crowds’ chosen came forth to light the rest of the pyres, and the field was alight; the fog illuminated like the sun behind the clouds. The smoke and stench was inescapable and all he could do was let himself go and drink it in. Absorb it and hold it within. The fires were all around, and his senses began to warble. The world was shifting under his feet.

As he watched the fire rage, Loki forced himself to look up at the burning man. His tribute. How could he expect Hela to accept it if he could not bear to look upon it himself? He struggled to keep his vision straight, but up he gazed.

The man had stayed strong and fearless until the instincts took over and the pain was too great. He was brave to his last, Loki would give him that. But in the end, he screamed and writhed like the rest of them. There was no man who could overcome that primal response.

Loki watched for ages as the raider’s skin reddened and bubbled up and turned black. The flesh shriveling away from the charring bone. He did not look away, despite the horror, despite the smoke stinging his eyes, until the man’s soul left him; as those eyes melted in their sockets and burnt away with a stream of smoke escaping out like a dragon’s nostrils.

And that dark thing inside him… that dark thing enjoyed every second of it.

 

It was nearly midday; and the pyres and bodies upon them were naught but smoking ashes blowing in the wind. Charred bones fallen when released from their tendons into the charcoal below. An endless expanse of the residue of death. Many men had been sacrificed this morning. Many men that would greet the champions in Helheim. The most in a morning since the days of the slaughter of the Fireborn.

By this point, most of the champions were saddled up and beginning the slow trot across the field, journey begun without more ceremony. A few were receiving their final, weeping goodbyes from friends and family and tribemates.

Thor and Loki sat atop their horses, side-by-side, silently regarding their home one last time. They knew what was on each other’s minds. These lands of yellowed grass and sickly, half-dead evergreen forest, chilly even in the days before the ash froze the world they knew in perpetual gray. The thieving foxes and the barking dogs. The shrill of laughter from children dressed not nearly warm enough as they played in the mud. The grumpy chicken keeper and the silent goat herders. The wafting smell of roasting boar and goat and spices and the crackling of goat’s milk butter. The drying cheeses on the windowsills and the melting honeyed beeswax. The cozy wooden homes, especially Odin’s; greatest of all in the realm with its multiple stories and expansive width. The lavish rugs and warm crackling hearth within.

Eldreheim. Home.

A crunching under boots made them both glance over as their father made his way towards them. All three looked at each other, seeming at a loss for words, though looking like they had a great many to speak.

Odin eventually sighed. His eye was tired, devoid of energy like the brothers had never seen, even in times of war. “My sons. Know that I am proud of both of you.” He glanced at Loki, and Loki saw in that moment that he meant those words for both of them. He did not know how to feel for it. He had never received praise from his father in his life. “I know in my heart that you will succeed where I have failed. It is on your backs that Asgard will ride to salvation. And I pray to every god that you will both return to me.” He had a sad edge to him. “You are all I have.”

Thor looked touched. “I swear to you, father. We will return to you victorious, or see you again in Valhalla with stories of our success. Asgard will rise again.”

Loki was silent. He had no promises to make. No words needing spoken. It was a strange feeling for a silvertongue. He hoped his father did not take it for indignance.

Suddenly, a sable horse trotted past them all, kicking up in the mud, the warrior Clint of the Bartons upon it. The horse was laden in what seemed like endless wraps of arrows. “Come on then, you two.” He said merrily. “I don't think Stark intends to wait.”

A last look to the village, a final nod to their father, for what may truly be final; the sons of Odin nudged their horses, turned and followed the retreating line of champions.

Odin did not move from his watch until the last horse disappeared into the forest.


	4. Map of Asgard (and more)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All art is my own. Handcrafted with Love™.

[Full View](https://i.imgur.com/6aNgt9zr.jpg)

_Map of the lands of Asgard, including journey trail and important locations._

 

—-

 

_Seal of travel to Helheim_

 

_Loki Portrait[(Full View)](https://i.ibb.co/DM3DbxZ/Loki.png)_

 

 

_Loki warpaint Portrait ([Full View](https://i.ibb.co/CsYkCfx/Loki2.png))_

 

_The Champions[(Full View)](https://i.ibb.co/4thdz14/heroes.png)_

—-

 

**The Champions:**

Anthony of the Starks

Age: 23

Weapon of Choice: Custom Sword

Seal Location: Center of Chest

Horse: A bulky, surefooted blanket Appaloosa

 

Thor Odinson

Age: 23

Weapon of Choice: Hammer

Seal Location: Left Shoulder

Horse: The largest of the ten, a well-muscled gold champagne

 

Loki Odinson

Age: 20

Weapon of Choice: Magic; Double Shortswords; Daggers

Seal Location: Upper Back

Horse: The smallest of the ten, a silent, wiry black with white ankles

 

Steven of the Rogers

Age: 25

Weapon of Choice: Shield and Sword

Seal Location: Right Shoulder

Horse: A bulky, well-muscled white

 

Bruce of the Banners

Age: 26

Weapon of Choice: Berserker-Rage; Axe

Seal Location: Left Thigh

Horse: A stocky, strong skewbald overo

 

Clint of the Bartons

Age: 24

Weapon of Choice: Bow and Arrow

Seal Location: Right Shoulder

Horse: An average-sized, speedy sable

 

Sif of Valkyria

Age: 24

Weapon of Choice: Lance; Sword

Seal Location: Left Forearm

Horse: An average-sized dapple grey

 

Fandral of Gyldenholde

Age: 23

Weapon of Choice: Sword; Daggers

Seal Location: Right Thigh

Horse: An average-sized, quick rose grey

 

Volstagg of Drueheim

Age: 25

Weapon of Choice: Axe

Seal Location: Stomach

Horse: A thick-boned, muscular tank of a blood bay

 

Hogun of Månetur

Age: 26

Weapon of Choice: Mace

Seal Location: Right Forearm

Horse: An average-sized, fast yet steady seal brown

—-

 

**Seiðr Spell Category Colors:**

• Green: Enhance

• Gold: Heal

• Red: Detect

• Blue: Conjure

• Black: Absorb

• White: Manipulate

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Map will be updated should there be future important locations.  
> Supplemental reference information will be added as necessary.  
> So be sure to check back now and then :)


	5. Chapter 5

Anthony breathed in the fresh, misty forest air as his horse trotted between the splintering tree trunks.

True, the ever-present stench that bellowed forth from the mountain and its many fissures across the lands was present as a biting edge here as it was everywhere; but in the forest, sickly or not, the air was fresher than elsewhere.

He didn't get a lot of that back home. Starkholde was rocky at the foot of the lower west region of the Drage, and the air was laden with the work of hundreds of blacksmiths, on top of the volcano’s breath. The idea of fresh air was not a common one for Starkmen who were not traveling merchants. It was a welcome change, for Anthony.

It had been several hours since they had first set out from the grasslands of Eldreheim and entered its evergreen forest, and the light was beginning to grow dim; orange and purple in the sky. The ash was crinkling through the pine needles like twinkling frost as it fell upon the canopy more heavily in the dying winds.

Anthony had set a slow pace at first from his position up front for the lingering champions as they said their last goodbyes. But once they had all caught up, he pushed the horses to a faster gallop; as fast as they could while being laden with supplies and maneuvering through brushy forest. Not too fast, of course; it would not do to have a horse twist an ankle, or become worn out this early on in the journey. They had a seemingly endless ways to go, and the horses would need to stay as fresh as possible. After all, once beyond the Drage and into rather unknown territory, it could not be known whether fresh horses would be available for purchase.

Other than playful banter between Fandral and Volstagg, and at one point some sort of arguing between the Odinson brothers that could not quite be made out, the ride thus far had mostly been spent in silence. It was expected. Things would be awkward for a while until they got to know one another. It would be impossible not to eventually, and he hoped there would be no clashing of personalities to get in the way of camaraderie; but for the moment, Anthony would learn the men and woman around him in their silence. Silence sometimes revealed more than words.

For example, he noticed that Rogers often pulled ahead on his grand white horse, as though assuming lead; and every time he then stopped and let Anthony pass, like he suddenly remembered his place. Anthony recalled the titan’s shield brothers at the feast using the nickname ‘Captain’ with him. He must be accustomed to leading the way, Anthony surmised; and it seemed a natural position for him. In the time of the contest, he was surefooted and decisive and seemed to always know what he was doing.

Anthony, on the other hand; he made decisions whether he thought they were correct or not, choices made mostly for the Hel of it, because he knew a decision had to be made. It did not take him long to realize that Rogers would make a far better leader than him any day. But that was not for either of them to decide. Anthony’s lead was symbolic and the gods were watching, the shaman had repeatedly told him.

Annoyingly, that meant he also had to keep an eye on these individuals entrusted to him.

“Volstagg!” He yelled over his shoulder after glancing back.

The round man had a strip of jerky in his mouth. “What?”

“The preserved food is for when we can’t find fresh food.” Anthony reminded him. “At this rate you'll have eaten your reserves before we even reach the Rive.”

“But I am starving!”

“You ate an entire boar by yourself before we left!” Fandral laughed.

“That was hours ago!”

“Have you always been so repulsively gluttonous?” Lady Sif scrunched her nose.

“Why my lady, I have ever prided myself on my grand record of consuming eight large boars in their entirety in a single day!”

“Gods.” Anthony shook his head, exasperated. “We’ll set camp, and hunt. Just try and hold out until then; because when you are starving as we cross over the Drage, I'm not sharing my cheese.”

Volstagg scoffed as he put the jerky away, wrapping it in the leather with the rest and shoving it in one of the many saddlebags. “And what exactly will we hunt in these woods? They say there is a reason these Odinsmen grow goats, that there is no game in the cold-”

He was interrupted by the sudden twang of a bowstring, a thump and a startled squawk, and they all turned to look.

Barton, the aptly-nicknamed Hawkeye, atop his sable horse, was putting his bow back at rest, hooked to the side of the saddle. He led his horse in a trot over to where a red-feathered arrow rose up from the ground, leaned down and grabbed it. With the wooden shaft, up came the impaled carcass of a dead wood grouse.

“You were saying?” Hawkeye looked amused.

“Pah, hardly a morsel.” Volstagg scowled at the scrawny bird.

“There are boar in these woods.” Thor’s imposing voice appeared from atop his golden steed as he emerged from the trees. “Perhaps scarcer than in your lands, but they are not hard to track and slay.”

Loki rode up beside his brother, his wiry little black horse dwarfed by the muscular golden. “That hen has recently lain.” He noted. His green eyes were vibrant as a phantom’s against the fog. “Perhaps you should look for the nest. It would be a shame to waste the eggs.”

Volstagg seemed to perk up. “Ah, poached eggs would indeed be a quaint side! Perhaps with a little salt-”

“Volstagg, the salt is for preserving.” Anthony reminded him, trying not to sound frustrated by the man’s lack of foresight.

“Hmph.”

Bitter expression aside, Volstagg struggled off of his horse to begin his search for the grouse’s nest, pushing aside dry, browned branches and brush. Fandral, remaining atop his rose grey steed, glanced around as languid way of aiding the search.

“I supposed I’ll look for more of these.” Hawkeye said as he slid the bird off the arrow and tied it to his saddle. Once secured, he clicked his tongue to tell his horse to move on, bow at the ready; blue eyes piercing the undergrowth like a hawk’s.

“I will set to the boar hunt, seeing as I know these woods and their movements.” Thor said, amused expression on his face.

“I shall join you.” Sif brought her horse over and the pair set off deeper into the woods.

Anthony was pleased that they were all taking initiative. The less orders he had to give, the better. This leadership business would be easy if it continued in this fashion. “I suppose the rest of us can look for a place to set camp.” He said, and the remaining scattered warriors obediently nudged their horses and continued on through the darkening, misty trees.

Anthony waited until Loki, who had taken up the rear, went to pass, and began to ride beside him. His blanket Appaloosa snorted into the quiet black’s ear, and the smaller horse shook its head in irritation. The young, raven-haired man blatantly ignored his presence, which caused Anthony to smirk.

At the time, Anthony had been far too shocked, and somewhat horrified, to pay close attention to particulars; but during Loki’s match with the massive warrior Fell, the young man’s movements had been fluid and agile like a dancer. Through the breath-holding tension, it was beautiful and impressive to watch. Now he knew this wasn't just the pathetic, scrawny kid that had snuck into his tent. A pretty thing that he had been intrigued with long after their first exchange; and had the hots for now that he knew this was a fighter, and a powerful one at that.

He had become delighted by the prospect; the idea that this enchanting, green-eyed enigma was now stuck with him for a very long time, on the very long and winding road ahead.

Once the others were out of earshot, fading through the fog, Anthony spoke up, “You know, I never would have guessed that dirty kid in my tent was the son of a chieftain.” He said teasingly.

Loki did not so much as glance at him; his profile betraying not much more than a set jaw, eyes hard as they stared ahead. “Perhaps you should learn the houses.” His voice dripped with false pleasantry.

“You’re one to talk, you didn't recognize me either.” Anthony said with a grin.

“I did. I just did not care.”

“Ha, I suppose that's fair.” Anthony chuckled. “So… what exactly did you do with that metal plate, anyway?”

Loki gritted his teeth, silent for a long moment. Anthony wondered if he might not respond at all, but the young man seemed to think better of it. “I suppose secrecy is no longer dire.” He finally said, sighing. “I used it to transfer the shaman markings to my back; as metal does not absorb the paint like cloth or wood, I knew it would transfer cleanly.”

Anthony blinked, letting the imagery settle in his mind for a long moment, holding in a laugh with effort. “But why? Why not just hand-paint it on your leg or something?”

“I wanted to make it appear that there was no way I possibly could have painted it myself.”

“That's…” Anthony thought about it. “That's actually pretty clever.”

Loki looked disconcerted by the unexpected compliment, as though he did not know how to react, and said nothing. A frown played across his lips.

“You know the requirement for a shaman’s approval was there for a reason though, right?” Anthony pressed.

Loki rolled his eyes. His annoyance was blatant now. Anthony felt a nerve had been hit. “Like everyone else in these lands, the shaman look only for bulk and obvious physical prowess. I would not expect them to give me so much as a glance, nevermind allow me a chance to prove myself capable.” Loki’s voice was heated, bordering on angry as the words spilled out.

“True, you do have kind of a maiden’s physique.”

That finally got Loki to look at him; though his expression was murderous.

“I mean, not that that’s a bad thing. The smaller you are, the quicker on your feet; and slim is less of a target.” Anthony went on. “And quite frankly, I’d hit that.”

“Are you trying to get me to slit your throat in your sleep? Because it is working.”

“Well anyway, the real point to all this is that you really missed out yesterday. I'm told that I'm a very good kisser.” He flashed his most charming grin.

Loki, seeming quite tried of patience, snorted. “A paid whore will tell anyone that.”

“You have a point. Care to help me determine whether or not they were lying?”

“Oh, fuck off already.” Loki growled. With that, he pressed his horse to speed up, pulling away from the man.

“I'm trying!” Anthony called after him with a laugh.

 

It was nightfall, and the stars ocassionally twinkled through when a gap in the ash clouds and a space in the canopy happened to line up. The splintered trees surrounding the small clearing were bathed orange in the glow of the large, stone-lined campfire crackling at the center, in the dirt where the brush had been ripped out a few hours before. A fine stream trickled softly nearby, and the ten horses had been tied within reach of it that they may drink as they desired.

All of the warriors had returned from their various tasks and now lounged around the fire sitting on stones or logs or uprooted grass piles. Two relatively underweight yet large-boned hogs were roasting above the fire, surrounded by a decent number of plucked grouse and quail, and a few skinned rabbits. Volstagg was boiling his spoil of eggs in their buff-colored shells in a pan of bubbling water; a good many of them, as Loki had keenly pointed out two more nests along the way.

The man had grumbled incessantly about not being allowed to use the salt on his eggs, clearly trying to passive aggressively get Anthony to change his mind, to which he stubbornly ignored. Eventually, Loki came up to him with a handful of fresh herbs that he had picked at the edge of the clearing.

“Try it with this thyme. It is no substitute for salt, but it will add some flavor.”

When Volstagg had removed the buff shells and sprinkled the glistening white eggs with the crushed leaves as Loki suggested, and put one in his mouth, his face brightened. He even declared that herbed eggs were perhaps actually better than salted eggs. He grinned at Loki, green thyme stuck between his teeth, “This is three times in two days that you have wrested me from the pits of despair, my friend!”

Loki bit back a laugh. It was true what the ladies of the kitchens liked to say; the easiest way to a man’s heart was indeed his stomach. Or his five stomachs, seemingly in Volstagg’s case.

Now, the two roasted boar were golden and carved, meat steaming and fragrant as it was distributed to the hungry warriors. Bones were stripped clean and the marrow sucked out. Birds and rabbits tore into. Loki surprised them all by how much he ate; like someone starved for days. Perhaps he was; no one could remember him being at the feast last night, after all. The bench place designated for the tenth champion empty and cold.

It was not long until bedrolls were one by one detached from the horses’ saddles and laid out on flat areas around the fire. The warriors, drowsy from their filling meal, crawled into the plush, fur-layered rolls and were soon fast asleep.

Anthony had volunteered for first watch, and now sat on a rock at the edge of the clearing. The night air was laden of smoke and ash, but he saw the stars now and then, glittering through the smog. Fire cracking, soft snoring around him, lulling and entrancing.

The sound of dirt crunching underfoot sounded, and he glanced up as Rogers came up to him, leaning against a tree.

“You look exhausted, Stark. Let me take watch.” He pressed. Yet Rogers didn't seem much more rested than Anthony felt.

Anthony shook his head. “Nah, I'm at that ‘so tired you don't even feel tired anymore’ stage; I don't think I could fall asleep if I tried.” Besides, this was a great angle to glance now and then at that pretty, pale face snuggled up in that bedroll. A face that was even lovelier now that it was relaxed in sleep. He wanted to drink it in while he could.

“Alright, well, wake me up when you’re ready to get some sleep.”

“Will do, Captain.”

 

 

The next day, Anthony felt the exhaustion deep within his bones, and dearly regretted not taking Rogers up on his offer.

The lot of them had awoken with the sun, some with complaints that the fiery orb in the sky should go get itself eaten by Sköll already. Yet still they rose, hair messy and faces lined from the creases in the bedrolls. By the time the sun was above the mountains, the fire had been snuffed by thrown dirt, the bags had been repacked, and the ten sleepy warriors sat high in their saddles, ready to move out.

The leftovers from last night’s meal, which only existed because Volstagg had fallen asleep where he sat, were wrapped and held for later meals. Several bird and rabbit carcasses yet still with their feathers and fur were tied to saddles for later roasting. It would take ages to reach Helheim if they had to hunt for every single meal, and so they would intend to keep what they could. Well, so long as Volstagg did not find it.

It was now midday, and the fog had let up a bit. The sky was a gray blue through the trees. It had become uncharacteristically warm this day, and Anthony found himself removing his fur cloak as they trod on. The warriors rode in a scattered line, some taking slightly different paths through the trees as they followed behind. Anthony tried his best to keep track of them all, but it proved difficult.

“Hey! Get over here!” Banner’s alarmed-sounding voice called out to them suddenly through the trees a little ways to the east. Anthony immediately found himself put on edge. If a berserker of all people was concerned, this was definitely something to be concerned about.

Hand on his sword hilt, Anthony turned his steed and went toward where he heard the voice, the other eight following rigidly behind. After a few moments, he finally spotted the man atop his stocky skewbald overo. He was peering through the trees, sunlight streaming past and highlighting him, to where where there appeared to be a clearing.

“What is it?” Anthony asked, trying to keep the nerves from his voice.

Banner only glanced over at him, and moved his horse to the side to make room for Anthony to come look for himself. There was horror plain in the man’s brown eyes.

When Anthony reached Banner’s side and peered out as he had, the fear rose in his throat.

The clearing made way for a good several wooden houses that stood close together, sturdily built of solid logs. There was a stone fire pit with a spit, a well, tanning racks, meat-racks and benches scattered about the clearing. A quaint living complex.

But…

Bodies lay mangled across the grassy ground, many slumped over things or against the walls of the cottages, stewing in their own blood. Men felled where they fought. Women half-stripped with evidence of defilement. Children slaughtered where they hid. Flesh sliced and hacked. Limbs and fingers and entrails strewn about. Brains spilling out of smashed skulls. Bloody teeth in the dirt.

Ravens pecked at eyes and ripped off hanging strips of flesh. A fox was burrowing into the torso of one, face soaked in blood. The clearing was eerily quiet save the arguing ravens, and stank sickeningly of death. Anthony’s eyes were glued to the horrific scene.

Behind him, he heard a thud and a crunch of the dead leaves underfoot, and turned to see Thor walking forward as though in a daydream.

“I… I knew these people.” Thor said, voice in shock. “These were the Thornshields… they were good people.”

“We should search for survivors.” Rogers came up behind Anthony, pulling him from his trance.

“Right, lets do that.”

The lot of them dismounted and spilled into the clearing, wandering over to the bodies and checking their pulses. It seemed hopeless. The attack was not long off that decay had progressed far, but it was clearly many hours ago. Far too late for any of these with injuries to have survived. They soon pressed on into and around the wooden homes.

Anthony looked up from the corpses as Loki walked by, footfalls silent as a wraith through the grass. Unnervingly, as he gazed out at the scene, his irises were glowing bright red; the image sent a shiver down Anthony's spine.

“Sýna líf.” He was muttering under his breath. Whispers seemingly not from his own mouth wrapped around the repeated words.

“What spell is that?” Anthony managed to get out.

Loki glanced over at him, expression distracted, and Anthony found himself swallowing as he looked into his eyes. That red was creepy, especially in this setting; among the bodies and blood run across the frosty grass.

“If there is anything alive here, I will see the glow of the life force.”

That was a useful trick, Anthony thought. “And? Anything?” He asked.

Loki looked back at the cabins. “Mice, I think. Nothing large enough to be human.”

Anthony’s heart sank. Dreaded news, but he did not stop the rest from their searching until they all came and confirmed Loki’s findings.

“All of their animals have been slaughtered and carried off.” Banner said. “I saw a lot of feather piles in blood and empty pens.”

“All of the houses have been ransacked as well.” Sif added. “Looks like if they had anything useful, the culprits have taken it.”

Anthony turned to look for Thor, and found the man kneeling at a particular carcass, looking sullen as he closed the dead eyes. His expression was dark, complex and unreadable.

“Who would do such a thing?” Rogers asked, looking down at the blonde man.

“Raiders.” Thor said gravely, gaze remaining on that gray, blood-spattered face. “They have grown more bold as of late. It must have been a large group of them to take this settlement. The Thornshields were not soft people.” His voice was low and bitter.

“I'm sorry, Thor.” Anthony said sympathetically. “We’ll give them a proper burial.”

Thor shook his head, slowly getting to his feet. “They are in Valhalla, now. They would not want us to waste the time we were given to save the living. They will be discovered by my father’s men in a day or two. Let them give the burials. We must continue on.” His face was hard, a deep mourning crackling with rage in his stormy blue eyes as he walked past the lot of them. They all watched him go, his fists clenched, as he headed back to the horses.

Loki, eyes now returned to their normal green, strode after him, and they walked side by side through the blood of their former comrades.

 

The remainder of the day’s journey was spent in silence. Contemplative, mourning silence. Respect for the dead. Consideration for what they had gone through in their final moments.

Loki saw the storm in his brother’s eyes, clearer even than a storm in the sky. The rage that lusted for cold, bloody revenge. He knew better than to try to speak to him right now, even words of comfort. But he remained by his side, hoping his presence would be of some comfort, even if just a little.

“I trained with Oran just a few months ago.” Thor was saying quietly to no one in particular, voice laced with grief for his lost shield brother; the man whose eyes he had closed.

“I remember.” Loki said, softly. “He bested you in the spear throw.”

A fond and saddened smile crossed Thor’s face. “He did have impeccable aim. I remember a boar hunt he joined me on last summer, he-”

“Hey, look at this.” Came Hawkeye’s voice.

They all looked to him. He was gazing down at the ground.

“What is it?” Anthony asked.

“Footprints. Judging by the broken brush, it looks like there were a lot of them. Chicken feathers and blood as well.” Hawkeye told them. It was a wonder he could see any of this. His impeccable sight never ceased to amaze.

“The raiders?” Rogers asked.

“Must be.”

“We should steer clear.” Rogers suggested, wisely. “We should not waste our time and energy fighting something we can avoid.”

Anthony glanced at Thor. The thunderstorm in his eyes was comparable to the storms flashing through the billowing smoke of Surtr’s mountain, now, and his hands twitched restlessly. He had a distant expression; like he was imagining ripping every single one of those raiders to gory pieces with his bare hands. Likely that was exactly what he was imagining.

Anthony made his decision. “Can you track them, Hawkeye?” He asked.

“I can track a rabbit in a boar stampede. These guys might as well have painted an arrow.”

“Good. Let's go fuck these guys up.”

 

It was nearing nightfall by the time the ten found themselves crouching in the bushes, gazing out at the small clearing. The crowd of raiders milled about, preparing to start a campfire or stripping the feathers from the piles of stolen chickens and pelts from goats. They chatted casually as they cleaned weapons of blood; likely the blood of the Thornshields.

Loki shivered, feeling a chill run up his spine. This was too reminiscent of his father’s trial the other night. Yet this time, with forty raiders rather than ten. And these ones did not seem drunk or ragged. They seemed lucid and burly and challenging. Armored and muscled and well-armed.

“If we are really going to do this,” Rogers whispered to Anthony, “We should do it strategically, to minimize risk.” The blonde man knew better than to question their leader, but it dripped down from his blue eyes that he thought this was a seriously unnecessary risk. And Anthony didn't really disagree with that sentiment.

Yet he had, to his own credit, already been thinking of the best way to go about this. The plan formulated in his mind. Simple, but it would be affective.

“Hawkeye, Fandral, Loki,” The three who were named glanced over at Anthony. Loki’s eyes were guarded. “You’re my stealth team. Draw out as many as you can and take them out quietly before the rest suspect anything.” He turned to Banner. “You feeling angry?”

“Thinking about what these monsters did to those people? Yeah, I'm pretty angry.” Banner’s Brown eyes tinged green.

“Good. Once the camp raises the alarm, you’ll be the first wave. They won't know what hit them, they’ll be terrified and focused on you; and we’ll hit them hard behind you. Double surprise attack. Work for everyone?”

They all nodded. Even Rogers seemed satisfied.

“Good. Stealth team, move out.”

Hawkeye, Fandral and Loki, weapons at the ready, nodded and disappeared into the darkening shadows.

 

“Kveðja kanína.”

Through the black eye paint that streaked down like gashes through his cheekbones, Loki’s irises glowed blue like sapphires as the whispers wrapped around his muttered spell. From the air came blue wisps, twining around each other until they formed the image of a wraithlike rabbit. Loki hid behind a tree, bark clinging to his tunic, cloaked by shadow; and set the rabbit to work.

The rabbit ran to the edge of the clearing, just out of sight of the raiders, and shuffled around loudly in the leaf litter. The sound of snapping twigs and rustling bushes filled the air. The sound resonated larger than the cause.

As intended, the ruckus caught the ear of a few of the men sitting at the edge of the camp. They turned their heads and looked into the shadows.

“Quiet.” One large man, face scarred and one eye white, barked at the others. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” A weaselly yet dangerous-looking man asked.

“There's something moving around out there.”

“Probably just a squirrel or something.”

For risk of losing their attention, Loki’s rabbit pushed over a rock, creating a loud thump and a crack as it hit another rock poking out of the dirt.

That got more attention, and the camp quieted, concerned expressions forming. One of the largest men, massive of muscle with black, glittering eyes and a large battleaxe strapped to his back, rose to his feet, glaring out into the darkness. “Who goes there?”

The silence fell for many tense moments.

Then, the rustling continued, sounding like footprints rushing away.

“Jard, take some men and go after it.” The large man, seemingly the leader, ordered the scarred, one-eyed man. The alarm was clear in his rough voice.

Jard nodded and motioned to the four men around him. The five of them got up, weapons in hand, jaws set and started into the woods, grass and dried pine needles crunching under foot.

The rustling continued on, deeper into the woods, sounding fleeting, and the men picked up the pace. The forest was darkening, the mist curling around tree trunks and cushioning bushes. It was soundless other than the rustling, and the men gripped their weapons tighter, sensing something was not right. The hair on their necks stood on end as they jogged on.

Suddenly a thump and a rustle sounded in a different direction, and the men startled. Now the strange noises were coming from two different directions at once, and the raiders stood huddled, trying to decide what to do, fear rising in their bellies.

After a few moments, Jard barked, “Maison with me, the rest of you go that way.”

The men split up. The three looked quite nervous as they followed the noise they were sent after, clustering close together, weapons up and at the ready to move at any moment.

It was like the arrow simply materialized in one of the men’s eye sockets, blood gushing out before the others registered what had happened, before the victim could cry out. They hadn't even the time to process and come to alarm when two silent figures appeared behind them, shining blades to their throats, slit before they even felt the metal on their skin.

The kills fluid and instant, the three men dropped into their own expanding pools of blood, Fandral and Loki looking down at them. Their blades dripped with blood. Loki’s eyes were yet glowing blue as he glanced up into the trees where Hawkeye crouched upon a branch, bow in hand. The man had dark paint around his eyes, heavy beneath them.

Three down, two to go.

 

The other seven warriors, Banner up front, face painted in the ash and red claws of the berserker; bare chested and ready, sat in uneasy waiting. The forest was silent. There were still just over thirty raiders left, on edge and quiet but back at their tasks. That was a lot to handle. The risk for injury increased for every man that was not taken out prior.

Yet, there was not to be any further pruning.

A shout of fear, of warning, rang out through the trees, suddenly cut short with a sickening gurgle. The raiders at the camp were instantly at their feet, grabbing weapons and shouting to each other. They knew they were not alone.

“You’re up, Banner.”

The man’s breathing became ragged and deep, and the rest of them backed well away as they began to hear cracking and popping, the flesh began turning a grotesque green, the dried paint cracking as the skin stretched, and the form began rising into the air. They slammed their hands over their ears when the beast drew a breath, and bellowed so loudly that the leaves blew away in front of him.

The giant, green berserker, standing tall in his tightened, specially-made expansive fabric trousers, wound up and charged. The ground vibrated underfoot as the aptly-named Hulk ran forward. As he broke through the trees and barreled after the crowd of raiders, shouts of surprise and cries of fear resounded.

The sickening sound of crushing bodies, snapping bone and metal bouncing off of thick hide with a thud resonated through the air, penetrating the tree line.

“Now!” Anthony ordered the rest of them, and was the first to leap forward through the trees.

The clearing was filled with broken, bloodied bodies and reeling men fallen or staggering back from the monster. The Hulk had taken out a chunk of them, but there was a good many left recovering and rushing forward to attack; or run away, in some cases.

The warriors let out battle cries as they closed in for the attack, staying well clear of the green berserker as they launched at the raiders with their various weapons. Hogun smashed an unhelmeted skull right in front of Anthony with his massive, spiked mace. Bone fragments and brains dripped down as the seizing body fell violently to the ground. Blood drops had spattered across Anthony’s face, and he glanced up at Hogun with a somewhat annoyed expression. The man just shrugged and went after another.

One of the larger raiders roared as he charged towards Anthony, greatsword raised high, and Anthony sidestepped and brought his own sword against the man’s ribcage.

The leather tore and flesh ripped against the sword; a unique design of his own, it was segmented, wire-bound and flexible; each segment ending in a pointed, razor-sharp edge to each side like a spine. He felt the pull of tendons as the blade dragged through deep and the man howled in pain, falling to his knees with the momentum.

Anthony pulled at and hooked a wire in the hilt, and the sword snapped back into a solid form, sides smooth and sharp. In a heartbeat he had raised the now-stiff weapon high and brought it down strongly, neatly hacking the man’s head off. Blood gushed out instantly and the body collapsed.

Glancing around wildly, he saw a few men trying to flee into the brush; but each was met by an arrow through the skull or heart. One, out of the Hawkeye’s range, tore through the bushes; but was met by the materialized blade of Fandral, returning from the woods.

In another direction, further down the clearing, Anthony spotted Loki stepping out through the trees, out of the shadows that seemed to form him. His eyes glowed, framed by the dark eye paint, and green fire licked his blades. He strode forward, gaze dangerous, a blade in each hand.

Anthony just stood there, gazing. It was like time slowed down, and all he could see was that raven-haired mage. Loki faced off against two raiders, and it was like watching a firedancer. Fluid, like the two shortswords were ribbons, fire streaking through the air. The two raiders tried to strike him at different moments, but Loki spun gracefully and met each of their attacks strongly with his blades.

His furious swords met with flesh and blood sprayed out, an ear sliced off, the raiders in pain and enraged. One swung low, but Loki leapt into the air, and the raider’s sword met the leg of his companion, who fell howling with the deep wound. The sword was lodged fast in bone. Loki took that opportunity to strongly throw one of his shortswords at the downed man, green fire rippling with the motion, and the blade sunk deep into his back. The man fell over dead.

Loki pulled out a glinting dagger from his thigh holster, now facing off the remaining raider with one shortsword and the little throwing weapon. They circled each other; the raider’s eyes wild, blood dripping from his temple. Their blades met with a flurry of motion; Loki spinning and dodging and landing blows where he could.

Anthony watched, mesmerized, analyzing. In his mind he saw linework in the bending and motion, how the spine flexed and arms flew. It was so nearly perfect; there was just something slightly off about Loki’s movement. Something he couldn't quite put a finger on…

Suddenly, he was ripped from his trance by a searing pain that jarred through his shoulder, and he fell to one knee with a yelp. He quickly rolled and flew up to a crouch, pain running down his arm in waves. A large raider stood above him, a greataxe dripping with Anthony’s own blood in hand, advancing.

Anthony was quick to respond. He whipped out his segmented sword and swung it strongly, catching the man on the leg and sweeping him off his feet. The man landed on his backside with a howl and Anthony was on his feet, bringing the sword down and running it straight through the man’s chest. The man gargled and spit up blood as Anthony pulled his blade back out and brought it to his side.

He looked around, now. The rest of the raiders seemed to be dead or incapacitated, only a couple left fighting. It was all nearly over.

Yet that, however, created a new problem.

The Hulk was smashing the body of a raider to a bloody pulp, green flesh married by gore and light scratches; but now he had nothing else to focus his rage on. He looked around, green eyes wild, like an angry bull.

Then, his eyes locked onto Thor… and charged.

“Thor, look out!” Anthony shouted.

The blonde man looked up just in time and jumped out of the way of the lumbering giant. The green man ran over the raider Thor had been fighting with a sickening crunch and barreled straight into a tree.

“Banner, it is time to calm down, now!” Thor shouted, hands raised, fear in his throat.

The Hulk only roared, angered further by his crash against the tree, covered in splinters. His heel dug a rut in the ground as he turned, and started after Thor again. Thor braced himself, arms up. All the warriors were shouting now, horrified, picturing Thor as a great bloody splatter on the ground.

“Rólegur!” A commanding voice rose above the rest.

The giant beast stopped in its tracks, breathing heavily.

They all turned to see Loki with his hands up, gazing calmly at the Hulk. His eyes glowed white as snow.

“Rólegur.” He repeated, softly this time, walking slowly towards the beast. Anthony could see the anger in the Hulk’s massive, grotesque face slowly melt away as it turned to look into Loki’s eyes.

The angry snorting that had come from the Hulk’s nose slowed and calmed, and it rested its giant arms on the ground in a crouch. Loki reached him, hand raised, hovering just in front of the monster’s face.

“Sólin er að verða lágt.”

The Hulk’s eyes closed, and it slowly began shrinking, green fading from the flesh, muscles losing mass; all until they were once again looking at the bare-chested form of Bruce Banner crouching on the ground.

“Gods.” Thor finally let his breath out, letting his tense muscles relax.

“What in Hel was that?” Fandral asked in awe.

The white light faded from Loki’s eyes, and he glanced at the blonde man. He looked exhausted, and a thin, red cut ran across one of his pale cheekbones.

“A calming spell.”

Banner looked dazed where he sat on his knees in the bloodstained dirt, covered in blood and gore.

Anthony stared in wonder, finally relaxing as the terror was seemingly over. They were all safe. The battle won. The raiders all dead; the Thornshields brutally avenged.

But then he winced and groaned in pain; the adrenaline was gone and the deep hack in his shoulder seared once again. The pain ran through his collarbone and down his numbing arm, making his fingers tingle. This was not good. He felt tremors running through his nerves and he slowly lowered to the ground, crouching on one knee. He was blinded and deafened by pain, a ringing in his ears. His breathing was rapid.

Suddenly, he felt soft hands on his arm, felt a cold blade running gently into the slice in his tunic, pulling up to rip it open further. He winced at the sting of warm fingers pressing at the the gaping, gushing wound.

“Sauma.”

The words and whispers sounded muffled as though he was under water, and everything went dark.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Anthony really became aware of was an awful, throbbing headache. Like his skull was split in two and spilling out the heat within.

Slowly he stirred, and the sound of crackling fire fluttered in his ears. The resonation of scraping metal. The clearing of a throat and a yawn.

He opened his eyes with a blink. The sky was above him, shrouded in tree branches. A faint red glow lit up the needles and twisting wood. The acrid smell of smoke filled his nostrils, and, more interestingly, the fragrant scent of roasting meat, burning flesh.

He sat upright, and instantly regretted it. The pounding headache turned sharp, like a thousand needles suddenly shooting through his brain.

“Ahh, fuck…” Anthony groaned.

“Ha, the swooning maiden awakens!” Came the chortle of Volstagg, mouth full, fingers greasy as they held a half-eaten roasted goat leg between them.

Anthony looked up, squinting through the pain to the orange scene in front of him.

A decent-sized campfire blazed up in the middle of the small clearing, licking at the stones around it, the wood splintering within. It was the campsite originally set up by the raiders they had slaughtered, he realized. The animal carcasses the raiders had stolen from their late victims now repossessed by the warriors; who sat around this campfire now, roasting and eating. It smelled marvelous, and they had done a good job cleaning up the campsight. The pools of blood kicked over with dirt.

They all looked mildly scuffed, coated in the spray of the blood from other men, but otherwise unharmed as they ripped into roasted flesh, sharpened or cleaned the blood and gore from their weapons. Banner appeared to have overcome his daze put upon by Loki’s spell as he stripped the meat from a chicken leg with his teeth.

Anthony turned his head and saw Loki sitting on a felled log, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. His fingers were stained red, and that cut on his cheekbone still shone with oozing blood. His eye paint was smudged and faded, and a few spatters of blood yet crossed the sides of his face where he hadn't bothered to wipe off yet. He looked truly exhausted.

Anthony pinched between his eyes and sighed, the strain on his head becoming unbearable. “I feel like I drank a whole keg of wine last night.” He squinted over at Loki. “Can't you do that golden sparkly thing for my head?”

Loki glanced over and rolled his eyes. “I have done enough for you, I think.” He picked at his fingernails; dried blood under them. “If it were not for me, you would have no use of that arm.”

Anthony blinked, and shifted his arm. It felt kind of sore, but he flexed his fingers and tested his range of motion. It all seemed fine. Not even the tenderness of the wound he recalled receiving. He wondered how bad it had really been, before Loki had healed it.

He raised his arm and looked down at his side. His leathers and tunic were stained dark with the dried blood that had run down from his shoulder. A shudder went through him when he imagined that what Loki said was true, and the idea of losing use of this arm. He wouldn't be able to craft, or fight at all. All those inventions he dreamed of, would become impossible to achieve. One misstep and his entire livelihood could have ended. He supposed he had a lot to thank Loki for, if indeed he was not exaggerating.

“Good that I have enough foresight for the entirety of Asgard; I grieve to think what you lot would have done about your injuries had I not come along.” Loki’s voice sounded bitter as he looked down at his stained hands. His nose twitched, tired eyes roiling with irritation.

“Have care how you speak.” Came Rogers warning against insult. Loki narrowed his eyes at him, but looked down and said nothing.

“No one denies that you belong here, Loki.” Thor said to his brother, softly; trying to smooth his ruffled feathers.

At that, a snort came from Lady Sif, and Anthony glanced at her. She was looking into the fire, and her eyes were a veil. What was that about? He wondered. But she gave no indication beyond distaste, and he didn't care to ask.

“Really, though.” Rogers went on. Anthony looked over at him, now. “Second day of travel, a simple pack of raiders; and you nearly lost your arm already, Stark.” The man had a pointed look on his face. “We have a long way ahead of us, and worse things to face. Do you think you're up for it?”

His tone was challenging. Anthony raised an eyebrow. He had a point, of course; but questioning him like this in front of the others? They were all pretending not to be listening, but he saw their wary glances, felt the tension in the air.

Anthony sat up straight, glaring at Rogers straight in the eyes. “Look, yeah, I messed up. But it's never happened before, and won't again. Got it?” He said sternly.

Rogers looked at him for a few tense moments, and then gave him a nod. “I suppose we’ll see.”

Anthony shot the rest of them a withering look, and they all hurriedly turned back to their chatter, looking anywhere but at Anthony.

Fandral nudged Volstagg, “So… last I visited the Fingers, I met this beautiful ginger.”

“Aye, you're going to have to be more specific.” Volstagg chortled. “Drueheim is the land of the gingers.”

“Well, see I was far too drunk on the apple wine and I can't remember her name… but I would dearly love to, ah… make acquaintances with her next I return.”

Volstagg laughed, “Alright, tell me what you remember.”

Loki stood up from where he sat, and started towards the horses, which were tied up at the edge of the camp, within the trees. He walked so softly, the ashy dirt didn't even crunch under his feet like it did with the others.

When he went to pass by, Anthony grabbed Loki by the leg to stop him. “Hey; thanks, for what you did.” He said sincerely, looking up at him.

Loki just scowled. “You got blood all over my hand wraps.”

“Uh… I'll get you new ones?”

“They are imbued with magic that took years to build up. They are not replaceable.”

“Well, hey, just think of it as a part of me with you everywhere you go.” Anthony grinned.

Loki pulled his leg from Anthony’s grip with an annoyed huff and continued on away.

“What's eating him?” Barton asked from nearby, eyebrow raised.

Thor sighed, “A great many things.”

“And I… may have given him a few reasons to hate me.” Anthony said, trying to hold back his smirk. Still, at the back of his mind, he wondered what those ‘great many things’ were. Perhaps he would drag the stories out of him one day.

 

Loki rubbed at his face with the back of his hand, and winced. That cut stung, and his hand came away with streaks of blood on it. He cursed that Stark man under his breath as he reached his horse, and began unbuckling one of the pouches tied to the saddle. He pulled out a piece of cotton and pressed it to the cut.

This had been the first time Loki had used seiðr magic to heal an extensive injury. And it had been just as they had warned; draining. Anthony’s wound was far more severe than the man likely realized. He had lost extensive blood, and absolutely would have lost function of the arm if he had even survived the blood loss and inevitable infection.

Loki remembered how it felt, when he pressed his fingers inside the deep, gushing wound and uttered the spell. The feeling of that hot, sticky blood and the throbbing against his fingertips. How the golden energy flowed out of him and sewed the flesh under his hands. How it felt like the blood of his own body was draining out to replace that which the Stark man had lost.

He’d felt exhausted, after it was done. Fatigued as even the effort of lifting his arms was too great. He felt soreness in his bones, as if every sleepless movement he had done that day all came upon him with vengeance. And of course, on top of it all, the cut on his face was refusing to clot and heal.

He sighed and set the piece of cotton down; now reddened with blood. He unfastened the bedroll from the back of the saddle, now, and took it in his arms. After setting it down on the ground, he set to unbuckling the bloodsprayed outer layers of his garments, stripping off the light leather armor, belts, and coat. Leaving only his fitted, cloth trousers and light, long-sleeved undershirt. And his boots, of course. The ground was far to frosty for walking barefoot.

Loki took a breath and leaned back against his horse, which glanced up at him from where it grazed on the ash-caked grass. Perhaps it was the cold of the night against his underdressed state, but a chill went through his body as he thought back on the day.

He'd killed more men today. More raiders. Cut them open like pigs and watched the blood spill out into the dirt. He remembered the fire he’d felt in his belly when he looked at them, living men, moments before he slit their throats. The anger. The resentment. The rage that flowed through his veins and threatened to overtake him. He wanted to think it was on behalf of the innocent people those men had killed in cold blood. But it didn't feel like the truth.

Because he felt something else; lurking beneath the skin. A darkness behind his eyelids. And the darkness hungered endlessly. Hungered for blood. For death.

Loki didn't really remember how he’d gotten here. But he suddenly found himself deeper into the woods, and now the acrid smell of death hit his nose, tasted copper in his mouth. His eyes adjusted to the shrouded, moonlit darkness as he realized that he now stood above the pile of slain raiders where they had been tossed to haphazardly tidy the camp earlier.

One of them, the leader, lay slumped against a tree. Eyes open and faded in death. A deep hack in his neck; the wound that likely killed him. Gashes all over his body, clothes drenched in old blood. Loki gazed into those dead eyes. He heard his heart in his ears, his breath in his chest. He felt something screaming inside of him, crawling it's way through his veins, desperate to come out. Trembling, he found himself reaching for the dagger strapped to his thigh.

 

Belly now full of roasted goat and rabbit, Anthony wearily struggled to his feet, and stretched. His shoulder felt a little tender when he reached his arms into the air, but it was a good stretch. The others were also beginning their transition, packing up the cooked meat and furs and beginning to carry it all to the horses, going for their bedrolls in return.

“Well, I suppose we should get some sleep. I expect to arrive in Spekterholde by tomorrow night, so no off-track breaks in our ride.” Anthony informed the lot of them as they passed him.

Barton glanced back in surprise, interrupting his stacking of recovered arrows. “You intend to stop us there?”

“Why not? It's on the way, it would be nice not to hunt our own food and to sleep in a bed. It may be our last chance.”

“It’s not directly on our way, and it wasn't part of the plan.” Barton’s voice had a strange hint of anxiety to it.

“Yeah, well, it is now.”

Barton seemed like he wanted to argue further, but went begrudgingly silent.

“What, don't you want to see your tribemates?” Rogers clapped him on the back.

“I just don't think it's a good idea.” Barton said cryptically, not meeting anyone’s gaze as he tied his bundle of arrows.

“You have blacksmiths in Spekterholde, right?” Anthony asked.

Barton hesitated for a long moment, and then nodded. “A couple, yes.”

“Good. Then we’re going.” His words were final, and Barton turned to carry his arrows off to his horse, face twisted in disapproval.

A rustling brought those left standing around to glance into the woods where the sound came from, only to see Loki returning from within. To their surprise, he had fresh blood spattered across his face and undershirt.

“Loki?” Thor’s voice had an edge of worry as he called out to his brother.

“What?” Loki’s voice sounded normal and unconcerned as he reached his horse, going to pick up the bedroll he had placed on the ground earlier.

“Are you…? What is all that blood from?”

Loki heaved the plush bedroll up and shrugged. “Shaman things. Ritual for the gods. Do not concern yourself.” With that, he turned and headed back for the campfire.

Anthony and Thor shared a look. Anthony knew he would not get anything more out of Loki now, but based on the direction the young man had come from, he had a guess as to where he could find answers. So, he turned and pressed past the others into the dark woods, Thor at his heels.

it was not far away; Anthony wondered why they had heard nothing. Both of their breaths caught when they reached the body pile.

One of the dead raiders; the leader, they recalled, though unrecognizable now; lay sprawled in the frosty grass, ash settling in his hair. His face had been brutalized by a dagger; both eyes carved out, lips removed, stabbed all over and bloodied. Both wrists were slit, the tunic ripped open and the chest stabbed countless times; a red rune of Helheim carved into his belly.

As Anthony’s gaze traveled down, he saw that the crotch of the dead raider’s trousers was stained deep red with blood.

“Is that…?” Thor began, pointing to a bloody piece of flesh seemingly tossed haphazardly aside.

Anthony felt sick. “Yep, that’s his dick.”

If this was, in fact, a ritual to the gods, Anthony thought; shaman are more fucked up than he realized.

 

Anthony dreamed of Loki that night. It wouldn't be the first time; he’d daydreamed about the pretty young man plenty of times in all sorts of scandalous scenarios on the ride thus far. But dreams had a card over daydreams in their momentary believability; whether for good or for bad.

So at the moment, Anthony found himself naked, on his back in a firewarmed room on a bed of furs. All he had eyes for was Loki; pale and beautiful up from where he straddled Anthony. His thin, bare chest carved from marble, his green eyes shimmering with pleasure. His dainty hands rested on Anthony’s abdomen, and Anthony was rocking up into Loki; who let out delicious little huffs every time. Anthony wanted to drink it all up, the pleasure wracking through him as he pressed into that tight body.

Anthony suddenly felt the urge to reach out and run his hands up those smooth legs that had him pinned to the bed… but when he tried to move his arm for it, he realized he couldn't. He blinked and looked up, and found his wrists bound to the bedposts. It felt like his ankles were as well.

He looked back at Loki with a smirk. “Kinky little thing, aren't you?”

Loki’s vibrant green eye glinted mysteriously, the ghost of a sneer on his face. “Oh, you have no idea.” Anthony felt something cold on his stomach and he looked down.

He was startled to find a fine dagger blade pressed to his abdomen, ornate handle held by Loki.

Anthony felt a slow dread begin to rise. “I'm not really into the pain kink thi- ow!” He yelped when all of a sudden the blade nipped his flesh. “Hey, what are you-”

“Silence.” Loki snarled, suddenly lunging forward and shoving a cloth into Anthony’s mouth, gagging him. He then sat back, head raised in superiority as he brought his knife down again to Anthony's abdomen.

“Mmf!” Anthony tried to shout through the gag, flaring with adrenaline and horror, just before he felt the blade bury itself into his flesh. The muffled shout turned to stifled screams as the knife dragged along, deep in his flesh, deep red blood welling up around it.

Loki’s face was emotionless as he carved into Anthony’s flesh. He ignored the muffled cries and pleas and writhing as he went about the horrific work.

Finally, he was done, and he glanced up. The sweat poured from Anthony’s forehead, body trembling from the shock. The rune of Helheim was carved into his abdomen and gushing blood. Yet Loki’s eyes were aflame with rage and insanity, and that was most terrifying of all.

He got up from from Anthony, bare feet stepping softly onto the furs below, and he rounded the bed. Anthony stared down at him, eyes wide with pain and horror as Loki trailed the dagger gently down his leg, down and down and…

“Mmf, mo!” Anthony tried to shriek and pulled at the bindings when he saw where Loki was going with his blade. Anthony was soft now, but his cock was yet slick with their earlier lovemaking. Images of the mutilated raider flashed through his mind in his panic.

Loki’s hand suddenly glowed green, flicking his wrist and the cloth magically pulled away from Anthony's mouth. “Cry for Hela.” He hissed.

“Why are you doing this?” Anthony cried out.

“The gods demand it.” Loki’s voice was monotone and emotionless, as if this were an everyday thing for him, like sacrificing a goat. His eyes were a cold flame. He brought the knife closer to Anthony’s crotch, and Anthony felt the cold of it. He desperately wanted to get away.

“Please, Loki, don't!” Anthony begged.

“I must.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Anthony cried. He thought of the other wounds on the raider; the stabbings, the slit wrists, the mutilated face.

Loki let out a malicious laugh. “Oh, I will not kill you here. But you will wish I had. For you will die with the rest… in flames. In the fire of my rage.”

And the knife came down…

 

Anthony awoke with a start, gasping. His skin felt drenched in sweat as he gazed up into the fire-licked trees. He pulled up his shirt, where the rune had been carved. Though he felt lingering ghost pain, the skin there was unbroken. His heart was pounding, but he was realizing that it had only been a dream, and exhaled slowly.

He groaned and pressed his hands to his temples, when a smell wafted into his nostrils. His eyes blinked open, and he frowned. He knew that smell. He sat up and looked out to the campfire.

A small, metal teapot rested on the heated rocks beside the fire, steam billowing out from the pouring hole. He turned his gaze and saw a figure huddled near it, illuminated by the flames yet bathed in shadows. Anthony, shaking off his dream, slowly got to his feet and wandered over.

Loki sat with furs draped over his shoulders and wrapped around his thin body. In his hands he held a cup of steaming liquid. His face looked dazed and half asleep, and he had a bloodied bandage covering over the cut on his cheekbone. A few streaks of bloodsprayed from the mutilation of that dead raider yet crossed his face.

“What do you need painkiller tea for?” Anthony asked softly, drawing the young man out of his haze.

Anthony expected more hostility, but Loki only shrugged.

“Helps me sleep.” He sounded sedated.

Anthony sat down on the log across from where the young man sat. Closer now, he could see that Loki’s eyes were bloodshot, and he looked half asleep. “Mind if I have some? My shoulder is still pretty sore.”

“Help yourself.”

So Anthony found himself with a steaming cup of that golden-green tea he’d been familiar with as a reckless youngster. The sweet hint of honey, bite of herbs and woody base. It wasn't overly pleasant, but nothing relaxed muscles and soothed pain quite like it.

Anthony felt like he had a unique opportunity now. Loki seemed quite sedated, and wasn't being openly hostile. He wanted to take this chance to try conversing on friendly terms. “So, what inspired you to join this suicide mission, anyway?” He asked casually. He couldn't help the flashing memories of his dream. That somehow Loki’s intention to come along had been sinister in cause. He told himself he was just making conversation; not looking for truths to cover over his fears.

Loki blinked slowly, not breaking his gaze from the fire. “My lack of confidence in the lot of you.”

Anthony snorted in surprise. “Do elaborate?”

Sighing, Loki brought the cup back up to his mouth for a sip. “I think you could get yourselves to Helheim. But you know not the way of the gods like I. Once inside Helheim, I foresee things may become… complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“The gods do love their tests, Hela is no different. It is likely that every step deeper into Helheim will be a test, and not necessarily of strength.” His words began to slur somewhat as he went on, eyes drooping. “I have my doubts that you lugheaded warriors have an ounce of puzzle-solving in your beings.”

Anthony stared at him for a long moment, and then a laugh erupted from within him. “I see your point. Still…” He grinned. “You don't know me very well. I'm pretty clever, myself.”

“If you say so.”

“Heh, sounds like a challenge. I guess I’ll just have to prove it to- oh.” Anthony stopped when he realized Loki’s head has drooped down to his chest, and the young man was fast asleep.

Anthony quickly crawled forward and took the hot tea from Loki’s hands, setting it aside, not wanting it to spill on him. He looked back and gazed at his sleeping face for a moment.

He really did look tired. Dark circles under his eyes, nose red, skin pallid. The bandage stuck to his cheekbone was rusty with blood. Strange, how much such a little cut had bled. It made him worry towards future fights. What would happen if Loki got more than a little cut? And why hadn’t he just healed this one with magic? He wished he could ask, but the man was sleeping soundly now, and he didn't want to disturb him.

So instead, he took Loki by the shoulders and gently lowered him back down to his bedroll. Loki muttered complaints in his sleep, but pulled the furs closer around himself and breathed out.

Anthony shook his head and got back to his feet. He grabbed his own cup of tea, sipping it as he headed back to his own bedroll, feeling the sweet relief flow through his sore muscles.

 

 

The next day’s ride was rather uneventful. The horses were holding up well, and they had plenty of fresh supplies for lunch on the go. Volstagg was sated by their abundance of meat and wild onions throughout the day and Anthony did not need to yell at him to preserve his dried foods.

Loki seemed refreshed, his skin brightened and his eyes clear. He had taken off the bandage from his cheekbone, and the cut now appeared dark and no longer bleeding. He had managed to wash the blood and remaining smudges of eye makeup from his face that morning, and looked clean and fresh.

Thor was quiet, less jovial that he had been the previous days. Where once he cheerfully regaled them with tales of exploits, he was now sullen and did not join in on conversation. His blue eyes were sad and lost. Loki rode beside him most of the way, but did not bother trying to speak to him.

Though the man had avenged his friend, he yet grieved. They all let him to it.

Banner, in the meantime, was proving good company for Anthony as they rode side-by-side. The man seemed surprisingly intelligent, for a Berserker. He supposed it made sense, when he thought about it. Berserkers didn't exactly need to spend time training, thus were open to doing other things with their time.

“I've dabbled a bit in healing.” Banner admitted. “But mostly to better understand human anatomy. I particularly like to study the transformation process of Berserkers.”

“Understandable, wanting to know more about what you are.” Anthony nodded.

“It's more than that, though.” Banner pressed. “It's especially fascinating because I do not think the process is magical in nature, as many believe. I have reason to think it's completely biological.”

“Seriously? How does that work; for a man to become a massive beast on his own without the energy of the gods?”

“Perhaps the gods put the process in place when they created us, but I do not think it uses the magical energies.”

Banner went on to speak his theories and describe his findings, even bringing out his sketch pad once to show Anthony his depictions of how he believes the process works. In turn, Anthony rambled about his own discoveries in metalworking, and his ideas and sketches for new inventions he hoped to improve everyday life for his clansfolk.

At one point, Anthony spotted Loki looking over at them with interest, and Anthony couldn't help but smirk. That's what he got, getting left out of the invigorating conversation; for assuming his own superiority, that they were all meatheads like his brother.

Still, Anthony wished Loki was indeed a part of the conversation. He wondered deeply about the young man’s own interests and researches. He must have his own obsessions. Even his apparently deep knowledge of magic beyond anyone he knew of in Asgard was intriguing. Seiðr had not been a thing in Asgard for centuries; and he wondered where Loki had learned to use it.

The young man was an enigma; one Anthony was determined to solve.

 

It was quite dark by the time they heard the sounds of civilization. Volstagg had complained of his rising fatigue and wished to make camp while the sun was setting, but Anthony knew they were close, and pressed them onward.

Finally, through the trees broke the wooden watchtowers and the main gate of Spekterholde. Glorious in its dark ornate oak, mysterious in its holding, shrouded in fog and great pines.

Two watchmen manned the towers above, holding torches and bows, and one shouted down to them.

“Ho, travelers! Who approaches?”

“It is I.” Barton shouted up, bringing his horse forward. As he stepped out of the shadows and into the torchlight, his face was illuminated and the watchman’s face showed recognition.

“Hawkeye! We were not expecting you back so soon.” The watchman glanced at his opposite. They both shared an odd expression. Was that nervousness? “Where… where is your father and the rest of the party?”

“I am sure that they are on their way here.” Clint responded, tone even. “My comrades and I are stopping in on our journey to Helheim, that we may rest and refresh ourselves.”

The man visibly relaxed. “Oh! You have won the contest, then? Congratulations are in order.” He waved down, and the gates were forced open from within by the foot guards. “Please, come in all of you. I am certain Lola has warm beds and warmer food for you in the tavern.”

“Aye, food!” Volstagg delighted at the word, and was the first to barrel past the guards.

Anthony laughed, and moved his horse forward. “Come on then, my friends. Let’s go meet this Lola.”

The lot of them filed in, passing Barton on their way. The man had a dark expression in his eyes, and he glanced up at the watchmen before following behind the rest.

 

After the horses had been handed off to the handlers, the heroes eagerly pressed on towards the log building they had been pointed to. Warm firelight spilled out from the windows, and the sound of laughter and music erupted from within.

Volstagg was stuffing himself with seasoned boar before the lot of them even finished filing in.

“Welcome, heroes!” A friendly female voice called out. It came from a round, rosy-cheeked woman with a warm and friendly face. She held a jug of something in one hand, and was wiping something off onto her apron with the other. “Ale and mead on the house for you. And the lamb stew is fresh!” She laughed, and handed Thor a mug of something.

Thor smiled for the first time that day. Her warmth was infectious. “Many thanks, my good lady. It is well appreciated.” He raised the mug in cheer, “Skål!”

The lot of them got to drinking, eating and mingling, as the locals began asking how the contest went and begged for bloody tales of defeated foes. Sif in particular was surrounded by admirers, wondering about her home of Valkyria. Volstagg was already receiving chants to chug a longhorn of mead, and Fandral had found himself in a crowd of women who giggled at his tales.

Taverns were home to most of them. The best place for a viking warrior, where the most brave deeds they could recount, the more free drinks they would receive from adoring listeners. It was a place of pleasure and glory. The true reward of warriordom.

Loki, on the other hand, was not feeling very at home. He tried to blend in with the shadows, not being one for crowds. He’d lost sight of his brother, and searched him out now. Thor’s side was the only home for him.

Suddenly, he jumped when he felt a hand on his backside, and nearly fell into the culprit. His head twisted to see. A well-built man with scars on his face, head half-shaved and a drunken grin.

“Hey there, lovely.” The man slurred. Loki stared at him in shock. “Wouldn't you like to polish my sword?”

“E-excuse me?”

“You're excused, darlin’, anytime-”

“Well, well, honey. Making new friends?” A new voice butt in, and Loki felt an arm around his shoulders as he was suddenly pulled away. His head was spinning from the chaos and he pushed away from the arms, whirling around to face him.

It was Anthony. Loki snarled, “Whatare you-”

“Aw, won't you share?” The drunken man stumbled closer, laughing stupidly as he grabbed startled Loki’s arm. “I know there's not much to go around, but-”

“Hey.” Anthony suddenly shoved the man, causing him to stumble back. “Don't touch my stuff.”

The man snorted, and looked like he was going to argue; but then he just descended into drunken rambling, and began stumbling away, off to find an easier victim.

Loki stared at the man incredulously.

Anthony just laughed. “I tried to tell you, it's not just me.”

Loki looked back at him, face a monument to bafflement. “They do not treat me like this where I am from.”

“Of course not; you're the son of their chieftain. Here? You're just a pretty face.” Anthony smirked, leaning back against a post. “But if you stick close to me, I'll protect you from them.”

Loki sneered. “And who will protect me from you, eh?” He shook his head and stalked off, continuing his search for his brother.

Anthony grinned after him, raising his mug of ale to his lips.

 

Barton found himself outside, in the dark, crisp night, feet crunching under the frosted, ashy grass. He wandered the familiar village, lost in his thoughts. The people here were acting the strange. The horse keepers had glanced at him suspiciously, the guards were all on edge. He felt withering glares at the back of his neck wherever he went, that vanished when he turned to look. Had something happened while he was gone? He needed to find out, before the night was up.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his arm.

Barton whirled around, hand on his dagger; but relaxed when he recognized the person.

“Natasha. It's good to see you.”

The redheaded female warrior sighed, releasing his arm. “I wish I could say the same.”

“What do you mean…?”

“We really need to talk, Clint. Alone.”

“Why?” He was back on edge. Natasha was his friend, but he’d be stupid to trust her completely. “What the hell is going on around here, Nat? Everyone is acting weird.”

Natasha looked around, folding her arms, hesitating. She then turned back to Clint, and leaned in. Her voice was soft.

“There's going to be a coup, my friend. When your father gets back, your uncle is going to kill him. And I'm going to help him.”


	7. Chapter 7

The night was cool outside. The wind rustling through the countless leaves and needles of the great natural fortress that surrounded Spekterholde. The town was shrouded in darkness; cradled in it. The people were men and women of the night. They thrived in it.

Yet, the fire in Natasha’s residence was warm and crackling. The heat did not reach far, but it was comfortable near it.

Of course, Barton was not overly concerned with comfort at the moment.

“I'm not overly surprised to hear that my uncle is staging a coup.” He was saying, pacing the carpeted floor, in and out of the heat pocket. “But you helping him? That does surprise me.”

“Why does it surprise you?” The redheaded woman asked. She was lounging in her chair by the fire.

“You've always been loyal to my father.”

“No, Clint.” She looked back at him. Her green eyes warm in the firelight. “I've always been loyal to you.”

“Isn't that the same thing?”

“I sided with Brett because you weren't supposed to come home.” Natasha said, an eyebrow raised. “This whole thing was banking on you winning the contest and being gone. I don't have to be loyal to you, if you aren't here. Your arrival… complicates things.”

Barton shook his head. “So while I was to be off galavanting, you were planning on cutting my father’s throat.”

Natasha scoffed, and got to her feet. “Please, Clint. I know you have no love for Harold. If you weren't bound by blood, you’d have helped his enemies long ago. You being gone just made things easier. By the time you got back, months from now? It would have all been over, and you wouldn't have had to worry about loyalty.”

Barton leaned back against the wall, folding his arms and looking down. Eventually, he sighed. “I know my father has… not done a good job as chieftain-”

“He’s run us into the ground, Clint. You know it.”

“Okay, but why are you all rallying around Brett? He won't do any better.”

“I don't think he’s a better or smarter person than your father, no.” Natasha agreed. “But your father runs this place on fear. If your uncle comes into power? It’ll be fear that runs him. Because he’ll know what happens to a chieftain if they don't do right by their people. He’ll make the right choices because he knows what will happen if he doesn't.” She had a glint in her eye. “It’ll finally be us, Clint. We’ll finally run the tribe our way. We’ll be back to our glory days in no time.”

“Why are you telling me this, Natasha?” Barton asked.

Natasha folded her arms, looking away. “Like I said… your presence complicates things.”

“How so?”

“Your father will be here tomorrow or the day after. And if you're here, I know you’ll fight for him.” She sighed. “And if you fight for him? …I will too.”

Barton looked surprised, “You will?”

“You know I will.” She looked back at him. “And you also know that if your father has both of us at his side, he’ll win. Everyone knows that. So that makes it up to you, now.”

She slowly took casual steps towards him. “You can stay another day or two, and stop this coup. Or… you can leave, and let it happen.”

Barton let his head fall back against the wall. It was all coming together, now. The plot unfolded in front of him. This was too much for his brain to handle right now.

“You all really banked this whole thing on my winning the contest. Seems… unstable.”

“Nah.” Natasha smiled. “We all knew you would. You never miss.”

 

It had been an endlessly long night for Anthony, full of strenuous activity of the body and the mind.

He had left the celebrations in the tavern early, stepping out into the crisp night, the music and noise fading behind him. It was uncharacteristic of him; not to get drunk and laid until he woke up the next morning with a terrible hangover and warm bodies curled up beside him. But tonight, he had a mission. And this was likely his last chance for it, so debauchery would have to wait for another day.

Starkholde was the hold of blacksmiths. He had practically grown up in a workshop. So they were not hard things to locate, for him. Following the familiar smells, that soot and the tang of metal that he tasted at the back of his tongue, he had soon found a blacksmith’s workshop.

Inside, illuminated by the fire and sparks, there was a rough-looking man inside with a hideously scarred face and ash-coated arms, working the forge. Perfect; a ready-warm forge would make this go far more quickly.

“Greetings, friend.” Anthony had called out to him.

The burly man glanced up from the sword he was hammering the imperfections from. “What do you want, pretty boy?” He had grunted.

“I was wondering if you would be generous enough to lend me your forge this night?” Anthony had asked smoothly. “I’m a blacksmith from Starkholde, you see. And I have a project I need to get done before the sun rises.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Starkholde, eh?” He spat on the ground. “You think you're the best blacksmiths around, you do. Run folks like me out of business with your lies and your shiny foils, leaving nothing but repairwo- oh.” Anthony casually slid a considerably-sized sack of coins across the anvil, thin smile on his face.

The man took the coin bag, and pocketed it without a word. “Clean ‘er up when you're done.” He growled, before making his way out.

That had been the start of his long night. A night of hard labor and no sleep. He was in his element, in this heat and suffocating air. This was where he belonged. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

 

 

The tavern was quiet in the early morning. The red sunlight drizzled in from the open windows, setting the main hall in a cozy glow. As Thor and Loki walked down the stairs from their shared room, hair messy from sleep, they found the place that had been so full of noise and life the night before quite deserted now, this early in the morning.

However, as they reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner, a figure ran straight into them.

Thor made a noise of surprise as he stumbled back, and the girl who had run into him fell down onto her backside, cups clanging to the floor, spraying ale into the air and spilling it across the wooden floor.

The girl was young, fair and blonde, her gray eyes wide with shock. She had the thin leather collar of a slave, and bruises marred her face.

“I-I am so terribly sorry, my lords!” She stammered, face horrified. She cowered there on the ground, soaked in ale and shivering, no doubt fearing a beating.

Thor only grunted, and flicked the ale off of his arms. He then pushed past, continuing on to the main hall, ignoring the slave girl and the incident.

Loki, however, remained and held a hand out. The girl preemptively winced before she realized the hand was not for a strike, then she stared up in confusion.

“Come on, then.” He urged, not unkindly.

The girl hesitated for a long moment, before tentatively reaching out and taking his hand, allowing him to hoist her up to her feet.

“T-thank you, my lord.” She stared at him in wonder.

Loki gave her a slight smile. “No worries.” His voice was soft, and he dipped his head before following after his brother, leaving the bewildered slave girl to clean up the ale.

Loki caught up to Thor quickly as they entered the main hall. The innkeeper, Lola, was nowhere to be seen, but another keeper was quietly waxing the counter, and the smell of spices wafted from the kitchen, the crackling of bacon echoing through the empty hall.

Thor spotted Sif and Hogun lounging at one of the tables, and crossed over to them, his younger brother at his heels. They were eating what smelled like fresh barley porridge with spiced apple slices.

“Good morning, my friends.” Thor greeted them. He seemed in far higher spirits this day. He had spent much of the night before telling all who would listen the tales of his late friend Oran Thornshield’s exploits. Loki realized that must have been therapeutic for him, and helped the warrior to let his friend go.

“Good morning, Thor.” Sif smiled charmingly at him as the pair of brothers sat down across from the two warriors. Loki took one of the apples that spilled out across the table; a bounty straight from the Fingers.

“It is funny, sitting in this place now.” Hogun commented. They all glanced at him; he was not a talkative man, which meant every word he did say was well listened-to. “A night of chaos to a morning of calm.”

“Ha, indeed, my friend. This place was filled with grand stories last night!” Thor grinned. “I daresay we wrested a fantastic tale from all who wielded a weapon. It was glorious indeed.”

“Aye, just about everyone.” Sif agreed. But then she glanced at Loki. “I don't recall hearing any exploits from you, Loki.” She looked at him pointedly, smug look on her face.

Loki was taken aback. “I… am not one to boast.”

“No? Or perhaps you have naught to boast of, eh?” Her voice was good-humored, but it dripped with hidden venom that only Loki could detect.

Loki’s face darkened. “Or perhaps the stories I have to tell are incomprehensible to the likes of you.”

“Loki.” Thor put a warning hand on his brother’s arm.

“Oh yes, I'd imagine they're far more suited to the old ears of shamans.” Sif sneered. “Ah, the dangers and perils of setting bones and chanting for rain. How glorious.”

At that, Loki got to his feet, tossing the apple in his hand in the air, and catching it before turning away and starting off from the table, not bothering to answer the warrior’s taunts.

“Brother, where are you going?” Thor called out anxiously.

“Outside. I'm afraid the air is too thick with testosterone to breathe in here.” Loki spat over his shoulder before he slammed the door behind him.

Outside, the light was still red, the sun having not yet crested the horizon. The fog billowed through the treetops, and the air smelled as clean and fresh as it could in a land ridden with volcanic ash.

Loki breathed in, and then exhaled with a sigh. He stepped on casually, walking nowhere in particular as he studied the apple in his hand. It was green fading into red, with golden flecks across its fruit flesh.

He did not understand the Lady Sif’s hostility. He did not recall doing anything to offend her; yet now, when he thought of it, he realized she had been cold towards him since the beginning, when they set out on their journey.

“But why?” He muttered to himself. He knew the Valkyries were not generally friendly towards men, and naturally had to be tough. But she was civil enough towards the others. She only seemed to have anything against Loki, as far as he could tell; but he had no idea why.

It was somewhat heartbreaking, as he had naturally to respect her out of all; being someone that fought harder to get to where she was now than all the rest. A struggle he knew very well.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Loki was pulled from his thoughts by a voice, and glanced up to see Anthony heading his way, hands behind his back. Loki groaned inwardly, stopping in his tracks. He was not in the mood for this.

“What do you want, Stark?” Loki didn't bother hiding the irritation in his voice.

“Now now.” Anthony grinned. “Is that any way to greet your glorious leader?” Through the humor, the man looked like he hadn't slept a wink, dark circles under his eyes and soot streaking his face.

Loki was curious, but not curious enough to ask and give the man the attention he craved. “Many apologies, your majesty.” Loki sneered, instead.

Anthony just laughed at the sarcasm, though, and held up a hand. “Alright, look. I have a peace offering for you.” With that, his other hand came out from behind his back. He held an odd, fabric bundle out in front of him. Fabric dirtied with soot and fingerprints.

Loki raised an eyebrow at it. His annoyance was slowly being replaced by intrigue. “Oh?”

“Go on, open it.”

Loki hesitated for a long moment, glancing back and forth between the bundle and Anthony's face, clearly searching for a trap. Eventually, he tentatively reached out and pulled back the layer of fabric atop the bundle.

Underneath, a pair of gleaming blades swaddled in fabric was revealed. Loki gazed at them in surprise.

They were two indentical short swords, shining and beautiful. The handles were wrapped in gold, and the metal had a strange, greenish hue. The blades themselves had a curve to them, and looked sharper than needles. They were like nothing Loki had seen before.

“These are… for me?” Loki asked in surprise, not taking his eye from them. Something didn't feel right about them. Didn't feel… inert.

“I thought of it after I saw you fighting yesterday.” Anthony explained. “Your style, I think, would benefit from a curved blade. They glide through the air and cut more easily than a straight blade.”

Loki, absorbed by the swords, tentatively reached out and took one. He balanced it in his hand, and ran a finger along the flat side. His fingers tingled at the touch. “I've never seen metal like this.” He noted, somewhat wary.

“Galdurian steel. It's said that it was used by the sorcerers of ancient times because it is particularly conductive for magical energies.”

Loki glanced up in surprise. “How did you get a hold of it?”

“I had an old plate of it, found it in a dusty corner in my father’s workshop. Never made anything because I thought it should be used for something particularly special.” Anthony grinned. “Well, I think you're the only warrior mage in all of Asgard now. It's fitting you should have it.”

Loki did indeed feel his magical energies thrumming through these blades, like they drew from it, drank it in. They felt… ancient. And new at the same time. He handed Anthony his apple, picked up the other one and crossed the two blades.

Anthony put the abandoned cloth over his forearm, holding the apple, smiling. “They suit you, if I do say so myself.” He felt proud, the way Loki was looking at them. Like an old friend, they did indeed fit him perfectly. In his heart, he knew it was meant to be.

He was absorbed by this feeling of pride when all of a sudden, that dagger shot through the air and pressed against Anthony’s throat. Loki held it threateningly, cold against his skin; the other hovering in position to strike to the side. Anthony was surprised, body going rigid, and held his hands up.

“I'm not a maiden that you can woo with gifts.” Loki said coldly.

Anthony swallowed. “Well, I mean; in my experience, everyone can be wooed with gifts. BUT-” He raised his voice in protest when the blade pressed closer. “But. This isn't about that, I swear to the gods.”

Loki did not pull the blades away, but he appeared to be listening.

“Look, that metal was meant for you. I think you’ll do a lot more damage with these at your side.” Anthony said honestly. “And I need you on your A-game. I need all of you at your most dangerous, okay? That's all this is about. This is about making sure my team is as tough as they possibly can be, so we can all make it to and through Helheim alive.”

Loki seemed to ponder those words for a long moment, before finally lowering the blades. Anthony let out a breath of relief, and lowered his hands as well.

Loki regarded him for a long minute; his eyes unreadable, but no longer hostile. Finally, he spun the blades in his hands smoothly, and holstered them in his belt sheathes.

“I suppose they will do.” Loki commented, before turning on his heel and heading away. It was the closest thing to a thank-you Anthony was going to get; he knew it, and he’ll take it over a slit throat.

He rubbed the back of his head as he watched Loki go. “That kid is a lunatic.” He muttered in realization to himself. He glanced down at the apple in his hand.

Then he smirked. Because Anthony Stark; self-destructive maniac; had an unfortunate attraction to danger and mayem. And he, for all it's stupidity, desired to chase that chaos named Loki.

 

Rogers breathed heavily as he reached the end of his morning jog, breath visible in the chilly air.

He’d been up before dawn, when the stars were yet out and the sky was at its darkest. Spelterholde was eerie in the dark, but it slowly became more cheerful as the sun licked the wooden houses and bathed the place in a warmer cast.

He’d looped the circumference of the town a couple of times, so took a different route back towards the tavern now. He was just letting his thoughts wander to the warm breakfast waiting for him back there when he was interrupted by a shriek.

Rogers stopped in his tracks and looked around. Movement in the corner of his eye drew him to look towards a wooden hut as a door was slammed open, and three rough-looking warriors stepped out. One of them dragged a young, brunette maiden behind him, who thrashed and cried with futility.

They were followed out by an older man with a gray beard and mournful eyes, red from tears. He was dressed shoddily, and his head was lowered like a beaten dog.

Rogers jogged over and called out to them, “Hey! What's going on here?”

One of the warriors spit in his direction. “Mind your own business, foreigner.”

Rogers was about to rush forward at them when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned. It was the older man; he was even more grizzled up close, face and hands dirty.

“Leave it alone, son.” He croaked.

“What is happening?” Rogers demanded.

The old man’s eyes were glazed over with grief. He seemed to want to look anywhere but the girl as she was dragged away, her screams muffled by a hand before they disappeared from view. “I couldn't… afford the tax. So the chieftain’s men are taking my daughter as payment.”

Rogers was shocked. “What are they going to do with her?”

“Rape her, I assume.” His voice was choked, words were hollow. Like he’d run out of emotions and a husk was left behind. “And put her to slave work.”

“Why in Hel are you just letting them take her, then? You are not incapacitated, why are you not fighting?” Rogers was appalled by the man’s sedation. What kind of father was he?

The man turned on him in anger. “You think I would not raise Hel for my beloved daughter? How dare you accuse me?” He snarled. But soon the anger dripped away and he deflated, looking down and turning away. “It's useless to fight them.”

The old man was silent for a long, mournful moment. “But it doesn't matter.” He turned back towards the hut, a manic glint in his eye. “It will all be over very soon.”

Rogers was surprised, “What do you mean?”

“Harold Barton’s rule is not long for this world. The time of darkness for Spekterholde will soon be over.”

 

Banner always made a point to chat with shaman in any hold he visited. Though many of them were old and set in their ways, he did find the occasional visionary with new ways of looking at things, who had new discoveries to share with him. He’d come up with several breakthroughs just by conversing with shamans.

Once, he had even found a man who claimed to have dissected a Berserker that had somehow died in their transformed state, and had detailed sketches of his findings. That had been huge for him, as he copied those sketches and notes.

So naturally, he intended to try his luck this morning, before the group set back on the road again. This was likely the last hold they would be in for a very long while, at the edge of the known lands.

However, as he neared that rugged, rune-decorated shaman’s hut, he soon realized that the healer was not going to have any time for him.

The hut was overflowing with horrifically-wounded people of all sorts. Many were seated outside, some sobbing quietly as they held a bandaged arm or leg to themselves.

When he passed them and went inside, he found countless more of the same. Many were feverish, showing signs of bad infection. The air stank of blood, urine and vomit. Nothing he wasn't used to, but the air was so thick with it, he was nearly sick himself.

Finally, he spotted the two shaman. One was applying a poultice to a gash on a tearful little girl’s head, the other was readying to press a hot piece of metal to a feverish warrior’s infected, gushing wound.

“What in Hel happened here?” Banner asked.

The shaman attending to the little girl glanced up. “You must be one of the heroes, eh? What do you need? Supplies?”

“I like to consult with shaman wherever I go, but I see you have your hands full.” The Berserker noted. “Was Spekterholde attacked?”

“Aye, the outskirts beyond the wall are attacked regularly.” The shaman sighed. The other one finally brought the hot blade to the warrior’s wound, and the air was filled with tortured screams. The first shaman gently placed a bandage over the girl’s head wound, and stepped over to Banner, leading him away from the screaming.

“It is the raiders, you see.” The shaman explained as they stepped along, once audible. “They have become far more bold as of late, and Spekterholde is… well.” He sighed.

“Does your chieftain not protect the people properly?”

The shaman scoffed. “The chieftain has not done much to protect us in many years. He protects himself and his men only. The raiders have become insultingly brazen and he does nothing for it.”

Banner was surprised. What kind of chieftain was Harold Barton?

 

The sun had peaked the horizon as Anthony headed into the tavern. They should have gotten going a while ago; precious hours wasted. Inside, he was met with Thor, Sif, Hogun, Volstagg and Fandral seated around a table, feasting on breakfast that smelled warm and alluring.

Anthony stepped forward to join them, stomach rumbling after a night of hard work, when he was interrupted by another coming into the room behind him.

“We have a problem.”

Anthony turned to see Rogers closing the door behind him.

“What kind of problem?” Anthony was on alert.

“We’re about to be caught up between a coup.”

“A coup?” Came Thor’s surprised voice.

“I don't know who exactly, but someone is planning on overthrowing the current chieftain.” Rogers informed them, stepping up to the table beside Anthony. “I didn't get much out of the guy, but my guess is they’ll strike when the party returns from Eldreheim. Which, I imagine, will be soon.”

“His name is Brett.” Came a new voice. Clint was leaning against the wall. “He’s my father’s younger brother. He’s… always been jealous. Things have been tense for a long time.”

“And he has to pick now to make his move?” Anthony groaned.

“It makes sense.” Rogers said. “Most of Harold’s men are with him. They’ll have to file in through the gate; I imagine Brett’s men will take out the few that make it through, then defend the gate and take out the rest with arrows.”

“And once the undecided see that Horold’s lost the most of his force, they’ll side with Brett as the seeming winner.” Barton sighed. “It’ll be a bloodbath on both sides.”

“Then we need to leave. Like, right now. While we can.” Anthony said urgently.

Volstagg groaned. He still had so much boar and porridge to eat in front of him, and he wasn't inclined to rush himself. Fandral and Hogun, on the other hand, went to stand up.

“I can't.” Barton said. The lot of them all looked at him in surprise as he pushed himself off the wall.

“What do you mean?” Anthony asked.

“He’s my father, Stark. I have a duty to help him. And I know I can turn the tide of the battle if I am beside him.”

The others were silent, Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“Your father has caused a lot of heartache for your people, Clint.” Rogers finally spoke up quietly. “Maybe we should be helpinng your uncle instead.”

Anthony looked at him in surprise, “You want to stay and help the coup? You didn't even want to take the time to kill those raiders, Rogers. A coup would hold us up far longer.”

“You didn't see what I did, Stark.” The blonde giant had a haunted look in his eyes. “These people are suffering under Harold.”

“You have no idea.” Came another new voice. Banner was coming in through the door now. “I agree with Steven. This Harold guy needs to go.”

Anthony stared at him for a long moment before glancing over at Barton. “Well, it seems like you’ll both be fighting the Hawkeye, in that case.”

Barton, Banner and Rogers all stared at each other.

 

Loki had one of the new daggers in his hand, twirling it gracefully in his fingers. It would take time to get accustomed to these new blades, to get the feel of them. But Stark was right. They glided through the air like nothing, and when he sent his seiðr through them, they lapped it up hungrily like lightning to metal. Like water to cotton.

As much as he hated to admit it to himself, this gift had indeed tamed his anger towards Stark somewhat. They were brilliant pieces, and he could not deny the man’s skill. He had never seen anything like it before, not even among other Starkholde-origin weaponry. He was intrigued about the man’s craft. Clearly he was more than just a legendary warrior.

He was lost in his thoughts when he spotted something odd out of the corner of his eye. It was that blonde slave girl that had spilled ale in the tavern. She was standing with a man; another slave, by the looks of it. She caught his eye and then quickly looked away.

He feld something strange at the back of his neck, but he elected to ignore it as he continued on, feet crunching over the frosty gravel.

“My lord.”

Loki sighed as he became aware that he was being followed. He didn't know what this was about, but he wasn't in the mood for dealing with anything more right now. He’d just woken up fifteen minutes ago, for the gods sakes. Why couldn't people just leave him alone?

Still, he intended to remain pleasant. He’d learned the hard way long ago that it was generally a bad idea to openly release his anger on people he did not know.

So he turned, with a meek expression, and came face to face with the pair of slaves.

“How can I help you?” He asked politely. He rested one hand on the hilt of his blade, inconspicuously, just in case.

The slave girl exchanged a look with the elderly slave man. He was tall, mostly bald and grizzled. Years of hard labor wore on him. He cleared his throat. “My lord… you are one of the heroes of the contest, yes?” His voice was old, hoarse and wavering.

“Yes. I am Loki of Eldreheim.”

The man bowed his head. “Cara here said that you are kind to slaves.”

Loki was taken aback. He never really thought of it that way. “I… treat you as I would any free man.” He said carefully.

The man nodded, and they both had hopeful glints in their eyes. “We slaves suffer especially under the reign of Harold Barton. Most of us are starving.” He explained. “But there is a man who promised things would be better, if he was to come into power.”

Loki realized what the man was saying.

“It is in our best interest if this man succeeds in his endeavors.”

“What do you ask of me?” Loki asked softly.

“We would ask you to implore your friends to ensure success for Brett Barton.”

 

Barton’s look was guarded. “I won't deny, Starkholde has suffered under my father’s reign. But I am still his son, and I owe him my loyalty. I can't in good conscience allow this to happen. And you’re foolish if you think I’ll make it easy.”

“The odds are stacked against you, Clint.” Rogers noted. “I've seen strategy like this before. Like you said, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“I have my own tricks up my sleeve. And my father has allies that are not to be contended with.”

“Clint, please.” Banner stepped up now. “Your people are suffering horribly. It's like nothing I've ever seen in my travels. You have to see that it can't continue like this.”

“Like I said, I don't agree with my father’s way of running things. But I’m not going to sit by while his throat is cut.”

“Isn't there some way we can end this peacefully?”

“My father won't go quietly.”

The door opened once again, and Anthony glanced away from the bristling warriors to see Loki stalk inside. The young man was glancing at the scene in front of him cautiously, as he padded on towards Thor’s side.

“So we’re at an impasse, then.” Rogers said, voice clipped.

“Impasse?” Loki asked.

“There's going to be a coup against the chieftain.” Anthony brought him up to speed. “Barton wants to fight for his father, Rogers and Banner against.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, and glanced between them. “Do you not see what is happening?”

They all looked at him now.

“What do you mean?” Thor asked his brother.

“I was just approached by two slaves who asked if I would convince you all to aid in the coup. This is a group of the very best warriors Asgard has to offer. And these people are trying to drag us into their battle. Because they know they cannot lose if they enlist us.”

“Perhaps.But why is that a problem?” Rogers asked. “They’re right to seek help. Things are… beyond horrible.”

“Have you forgotten already?” Loki scowled. “We are on a time-limited quest. We have not the time to waste on battles that are not our concern.”

“If we were to help, it would not take long.”

“We do not know when the chieftain will arrive.” Loki argued. “We have wasted too many hours here as it is.”

“Perhaps you are too heartless to the plights of others, Loki.” Sif piped up, coldly. “But there are those of us who would prefer to help those less fortunate if we are able.”

“You think I say these things lightly?” Loki growled. “It pains me greatly to betray the trust of those two slaves, and do contrary to their wish. In any other scenario, I would not hesitate to be of aid. But have you all forgotten how important this quest is? The entirety of Asgard depends on us getting to Helheim in time, are you really prepared to risk that for something so trivial as the coup of a single hold?”

“We have not forgotten-” Banner began.

“I think you have.” Loki was bristling. Thor reached for his arm, but he shrugged his brother off. “Do you not see? This is a test from the gods. They are tempting you, and it is working. They are tugging at your hearts, your guilt, your sense of righteousness that got you here in the first place. They are testing to see if you cannot keep your eyes on the goal, to make these hard sacrifices.” His lip curled. “And it is working. You are failing their test.”

The hall went silent, Loki’s words resonating through each of them. The shock of the implication stabbing each of them through the heart.

“Loki’s right.” Anthony eventually said. He looked up at Rogers. “In any other scenario, I wouldn't stop you. But we don't have time for this, and it's not our fight. We just have to hope that Brett Barton’s plan is as good as you say. We leave now, while we can.”

Rogers and Banner lowered their heads. They both looked like they wanted to argue, but held their tongues. Anthony knew they would follow his orders, if begrudgingly. They saw Loki’s logic, and they dared not defy the will of their gods-assigned leader.

He turned to Barton, now, looking him up and down. Anthony was less certain of him. “What about you?”

Barton folded his arms. “I told you, I'm staying.”

“You would defy my orders?”

“A man who betrays his own father shall not inherit Valhalla.” Barton’s voice sounded agitated. “I'm bound by blood. I have no choice.”

“You became exempt from that the moment you took the seal.” Came Loki’s voice.

Barton turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You belong to the gods, now. This quest is your overriding directive. It comes before all else. This coup is a quarrel of men; and you no longer belong to the realm of men.” Loki explained carefully. “To defy the orders of Stark is to turn your back on the gods and forsake Valhalla.”

Barton glowered at him. He realized he was caught. He had nothing to fight that reason with. And he didn't like it. He didn't like being backed into a corner like this. And above all, his emotions were more conflicted than ever before in his life. Fighting through years of repressed emotions, now suddenly bubbling to the surface with the endgame now in sight.

The silence hung for a long moment before Anthony finally cleared his throat. “Right, that's settled. Saddle up, boys and girls.”

At that, the heroes got up from their seats, and obediently began filing past Anthony, out of the tavern. Remainder of their meals left behind. Except for Volstagg, of course, who carried as much of the boar with him as he could.

Barton grabbed Loki by the tunic when he tried to pass by. “You're a little shit.”

Loki glared back, “For keeping you from doing something stupid?”

“You’ve ensured the death of my father. I will never forgive you.”

“You will when we reach Helheim without a moment left of our allotted time to spare.” Loki pulled away from Barton’s grip, and stalked away.

Anthony, who had watched the exchange, sighed and followed right behind Loki, leaving Barton alone in the empty tavern.

As they walked, Anthony addressed Loki, quietly so that the others could not hear. “Do you really believe that? That this is a test from the gods?”

Loki laughed bitterly. “Of course not. I'm not an idiot.”

 

Barton went for a walk through the town, feeling sick and agitated. He felt like he was walking through a dream, this place that had once been home now felt so alien in this new, hostile light.

All his life, his father had been abusive and horrible to his sons, as he was to all under his rule. But Barton was bound by blood to him, and even loved him, in a way. Now that all crumbled to his feet and he felt so powerless. Was Loki right? Did the seal break the blood bond? Was he free of his father, and was that actually what he wanted? His heart was tugged in so many different directions at once.

Then he took a moment to look around. Actually look. The town really was in shambles, he suddenly realized. He spent so much time in the forest; hunting animals and raiders alike; avoiding his father, that he had turned a blind eye to the condition of his home. Intentionally, he knew. He hadn't felt like he could fight or change anything, so he buried it all. That was how he dealt with his emotions.

But his teammates were right. Things are bad. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all, leaving and letting things play out how they did. He suddenly imagined the place without his father. That dark presence gone. The conspiracies and stifling corruption.

When the realization hit him, he felt the air pulled out of him, a weight lifted from his chest.

“You’re leaving, then?”

Natasha’s voice drew him out of his thoughts.

Barton looked at her for a long moment before nodding slowly. “I am.” The decision coming upon him as soon as he said it.

“Good.” Natasha was visibly relieved.

“Is it?” Barton asked bitterly, turning his head. “I don't think any of you are thinking very far ahead.”

Natasha frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You said Brett will be ruled by fear. That the people will be in control. You don't think that's going to end in anarchy and chaos?”

Natasha gazed at him. “Maybe.” She admitted. “But we have to do something, Clint, and Brett is our best chance right now.”

“What's going to happen to my brother?” Barton asked. His elder brother, Barney, travelled with their father now. He was in the same situation as Clint. He knew Barney would fight hard for their father, bound by blood.

“Brett has specific orders to incapacitate him and take him into custody, and he's not to be killed. He’ll be released to do as he wants after your father is executed.”

“Smart. If he killed Barney, he’d have to deal with my revenge upon my return.” Barton nodded. “But what if Barney seeks revenge for our father?”

“He won't.” Natasha sounded confident. “We both know he has no love for Harold.”

Barton was silent for a long moment.

“Just do me a favor.” He finally said.

“Anything.”

“Make sure my father dies honorably. Make sure he goes to Valhalla.”

 

The nine heroes were busy saddling their horses and securing their possessions when Barton appeared.

Anthony was surprised. “Coming with us after all?”

“I am.” Barton said, begrudgingly.

Anthony nodded. “I know this is hard for you. But you're making the right choice.”

“Fuck off, Stark.” Barton spat at him as he headed for his horse.

Anthony sighed. So being leader meant being everyone’s punching bag. Alright, he could take it.

Suddenly, they began noticing people running past, in the direction of the main gate. Many were carrying bows or swords.

“What is their hurry?” Volstagg wondered out loud.

Anthony had a sinking feeling. He realized, sickened, that they were too late.

The shouting began. The shouting and clanging of metal, the scraping of shields. The whistling of arrows and twang of bowstrings. Even the horse handlers had run off. The horses whinnied nervously, sensing the commotion.

Anthony strode forward and grabbed a woman by the arm as she tried to run by. “What's going on?” He asked her. He knew in his heart, but he needed confirmation.

Her blue eyes were bright with excitement. “The chieftain has returned; the coup has begun!”

Anthony cursed under his breath. They would not be able to leave by the main gate, now, without fighting their way through. He supposed Rogers and Banner would prefer it that way, but he was not prepared to risk it.

“Is there another way out of the town?” Anthony asked the woman urgently.

Her joy seemed to dim. “You… you are not going to aid us?”

Anthony winced. “I’m sorry, but we can't. We have a duty to the gods. We must leave now, or all Asgard may be lost.”

The woman looked saddened, and like she wanted to argue. But she eventually said, “There is a small gate at the far northeastern part of the wall. It only opens from the inside, so you must be sure-”

“Thank you, my lady. I wish you all luck.” Anthony interrupted her. He turned to the heroes. “Lets go.”

They all quickly began mounting their horses, all except Barton.

“Barton, we need to go.” Anthony ordered.

But the man was absorbed by the sounds of fighting that rang out through the town. Groups of Harold’s men that had remained behind were being attacked by the villagers as the warriors and archers fought the main horde. Screams of pain sung through the air.

Suddenly, the enraged battle cry of a man rang out through the air, from the other side of the wall. Barton had a startled expression, like he recognized that voice.

“Barton!” Anthony barked at him. “Lets go!”

Barton turned back, a pained look in his eyes.

“I… I can't.”

He grabbed his bow from his horse, and before anyone could say anything, he turned back to head towards the fight.

He made it a few steps before, suddenly, a soft hand touched his neck.

“Svefn.”

He was asleep before he recognized what was happening, falling to the ground in a heap.


End file.
